And Then There Were Two
by Colvine
Summary: This is my take on what should have happened after X3. I know it's a somewhat overused plotline, but stick with me. There will be slash and blatant shipping. You have been warned.
1. Prologue

So, apparently I should write these things

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. And I only wish I could find a way to profit off of all this. 'Fraid not.

This is my first official fabfiction. It'll mostly be first person, a bunch of different POV's. Eventually it'll also be a Pyro-Iceman thing, so any slash haters, turn back now.

**And Then There Were Two**

Prologue 

None of us really knew what to make of it when four months after the... incident at Alcatraz, John Allerdyce, or possibly Pyro appeared once more before the imposing doors of Charles Xavier's mansion. The door was slammed once, and nearly again a second time. There were arguments, loud ones, to which Pyro himself contributed nothing more than a quiet explanation and a strangely defiant look. Threats were uttered through, of course, the noxious cigar of none other than Logan.

When he arrived, he was slightly battered and much the worse for wear, as well as soaked to the bone from the impressive storm that raged outside ("I had nothing to do with it!" protests Storm, guiltily). For the damage and indeed for his continued existence outside of a high security no explanations were forthcoming, although a few theories popped up, most of them cynical and belonging to Logan.

Perhaps it was in the professor's memory. Forgiveness and second chances were his thing, after all, and he wouldn't want one of his students left out in the rain. And so, there was a second chance. (To be completely accurate, it was closer to a third chance, but that's another story altogether.) There were restrictions, of course. One mis-step he'd be out again, for good.

The problem with second chances is that you have to earn it from every person involved in the original mistake. John thought that by now he was probably good with the Professor (and he probably understood already, well before John did). This left him with two people to make amends to, neither of whom he is looking forward to.

* * *

Despite his reluctance, John gets his chance very soon after his not-so-triumphant return. Just as he was leaving the infirmary; "Christ, this is unnecessary, I'm fine! And would you get the hell away from me with that needle!" he runs into Bobby Drake, one of the two people lucky enough to warrant an apology.

They both stopped, and they stared for a while, like deer caught in headlights. Finally, Bobby broke his gaze as he closed the remaining distance slowly, looking almost in a daze. John flinched slightly, expecting to be shoved and telling himself not to hit back just this once, and so he was taken by surprise when he was engulfed in a hug. A reluctant, confused hug, but a hug nonetheless, and orders of magnitude better than a punch.

Then suddenly Bobby let go, and seemed to remember something. He started talking, quietly and angrily at first and escalating into loud and angry, and punctuated with shoving.

"What are you doing here? Where the hell were you? Four months! Four damned months, you utter bastard! And what the hell is wrong with you, just leaving, going with Magneto and Mystique? They're dangerous! They're murderous maniacs, they tried to kill us, they tried to kill Marie, why would you leave, with them?"

John had never had a cool head, especially around Bobby, and this was no exception. "Oh yeah, because you really gave a rat's ass about me leaving! I didn't see you asking me to stay! Didn't even leave your perfect little jet, did you? I was doing you a favour, leaving you to your perfect school and your perfect," he hesitates for an instant here, before continuing on a different tack, "I didn't belong here, not with y-them. You're all the same, you're condescending and you think you're oh-so-perfect and virtuous when really it's just stupidly naive and unrealistic."

"Oh, is that what you think of m- us? At least we weren't violent, and unprincipled and completely out of control and reckless."

This all sounded like it was about something big, about the X-Men and the Brotherhood. But it was too late at night for big concepts, and all they were really thinking about was Bobby and John, and about mundane, confusing problems that don't come with simple answers. Both of them knew it. They deflated slightly, torn between being angry at seeing someone who should be an enemy and being relieved at seeing a friend safe after a long separation, and confused and angry about the indecision over what should be simple.

Bobby decided that something should be said, and so, his voice sinking into a hesitant murmur, he confessed, "I should have hated you. I should still hate you, but it's even harder now. I didn't know what I'd do, if I ever did find you again. Would I punch that smirk of yours right off your face? Or hug you like an old friend? I mean- God, I don't know what I mean."

"Yeah," just for a moment, the self-assured smirk slips from his face, allowing his hesitant uncertainty to appear, "I think I know what you mean. It feels wrong, when there's... important people on the other side of a fight." Then, just as mysteriously as it appeared, the sincerity vanishes, although it leaves behind a fair bit of hesitancy for the subject that follows. "Ah, could I... stay, uh, where I used to," referring to the arrangement of two to a room. This is mostly for the benefit of newcomer children who gain the companionship of someone who knows the school. As they got older, students generally used to end up in separate rooms. Recently, though, the X-Men became far more popular, as the 'good guys', and space was becoming a valuable commodity. Almost sheepishly John continued, "It's just, I don't think anyone else really wants to share with me, I sure as hell couldn't stand them, and I hear you're getting low on space in this old heap."

"Well, just to save space. We have some serious shit to talk about later, though." Listening to himself talk, Bobby thought it was almost funny how quickly he had fallen back into his old habits, as if there was a part of him left unchanged, just waiting for John to return. Which is preposterous, of course.

"If you say so."

"Bobby, we're going to start the movie without you, how long could it possibly take you to – oh. What the hell is he doing here?"

* * *

Yeah, well, hopefully it'll get better. Sorry about the ending, I couldn't think of any other way to finish it. I'd appreciate any advice you can give me, because I'm not sure how to develop their relationship: should there long-standing affections or is it a new thing? One-sided or mutual? Heck, I'll even read the flames. Then I'll laugh. Snicker perhaps. Come on, you know you want to.

Love, Colvine

I decided to go back and fix up my writing since I can't get to the internet to post anything. So, when I finally get to post, it will be a little better, grammatically, and I will be much happier with the narration itself. I haven't actually changed any major plot events, so re-reading is by no means necessary. Either way, enjoy!


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. And I only wish I could find a way to profit off of all this. 'Fraid not.

So, this is my first story. It'll mostly be first person, a bunch of different POV's. Eventually it'll also be a Pyro-Iceman thing, so any slash haters, turn back now. Finally, there will be swearing, so kiddies – cover your eyes.

I would totally send cyber-cookies to my reviewer, except anything I cook is probably poisonous so it might kill you. Instead, I post this earlier than I had planned to. 3

**And Then There Were Two**

John/Pyro

Well crap, there's trusting and then there's this. That's not to say I mind or anything, especially considering the many, attractive alternatives (most of which involve being cured or incarcerated), but I expected a lot more resistance. Especially from Bobby, who instead of trying to freeze my ass solid, decides to hug me. A little surprising, and more than a little awkward, but still, not complaining.

"Bobby, we're going to start the movie without you, how long could it possibly take you to – oh. What the hell is he doing here?"

Oh shit. Of course it couldn't last - here comes the cavalry.

Wait, is that Marie? I wasn't really counting on her being here, but I'm a little bit happier to see her than I should be, considering. Honestly, I thought she got herself cured. It seems that not even that can separate the damned lovebirds. Judging by the look on her face, this could get ugly. I wish I had my lighter back.

"You tried to kill us, and now you're standing in the hallway staring at me. What is going on? There had better be a really good explanation for this, _Pyro_."

Ouch. The way she's looking at me now, I really want my lighter. I catch my hand running through my hair nervously, and curse, thinking I had cured myself of the nervous gestures. Apparently not. Bobby is looking at me, interested to hear my reply, because we never really did talk about this, did we?

"I... well, mostly; I have nowhere else to go. And, what we were doing, well I thought, at the time, that it was the right thing to do," and now explaining is getting harder, and I'm muttering, halting and looking furiously at my feet, because I hate soul baring, and this is all true.

"In some ways, I still do. We–mutants- still deserve equal treatment, at the very least, and I just don't think that hiding away like we're scared and acting nice the way we were was going to solve anything. It wasn't solving anything that I could see. But, I also know that what we did was worse than doing nothing, and it made it even harder for the humans to trust us. I'm sorry, for my part in the fighting, and ..." I trailed off. There was nothing else to say, really.

"Um...well."

I think she had been expecting me to say something nasty, because she didn't seem know what to say to me.

"See, I think we should give him a chance," Bobby finally pipes up.

Then Marie sighs.

"Yes well, you would, so I'll try, for your sake. And the absence of claw marks indicates at least grudging approval." They share a quick glance that seems to speak volumes about something that I don't know. "But I'm not trusting like Bobby, and I'm warning you – one wrong move and your scrawny ass gets kicked out so fast you won't know what's happened to you."

Ignoring me again, she turns to her precious boyfriend. "Maybe you should wait 'til tomorrow to try presenting him to the rest of us, okay Bobby? I can't deal with any more drama tonight."

No kidding about the not very trusting thing.

/\/\/\

We're back in my-our old room, and I don't think anything has changed. At all. There's still no curtains from the time I got drunk and tried to show off and ended up burning them down, my clothes still strewn across my dresser, my bed covers still mussed... He hadn't move a single thing the entire time I was gone. Which means my lighter-?

I'm across the room and at the bottom of my dresser before I can even finish the thought. Bobby snorts, but I've found them, and the soothing snap-click-_whoosh_ of the lighter is doing wonders for my nerves. I mean, the wrist lighters were convenient and really, really awesome, but there was always something missing from them.

"God, I've missed these things."

"Jeez, do you need some time alone with that? I sure didn't get that sort of greeting," He sounds put off. I wonder if it's too soon for joking around.

"Are you jealous?"

And the bastard freezes my lighter. "Cheater!"

/\/\/\

"So, what's up with the room?" I ask him later.

Bobby starts, and then looks over guiltily from where he has sprawled across his bed, drawing pictures on the ceiling and melting them so they'll drip onto my head. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing has changed. I thought my stuff would be gone, or in the basement. I thought you'd have a new roommate. But nothing has even moved from where I left it. Why?"

He laughs, nervously. "I never really let anyone else stay in here. I always thought, I guess, that you'd be coming back, eventually."

Well, shit. I don't think it has ever been harder to stop myself from kissing him (except for maybe that time we got drunk and he decided that _of course_ it was okay for two straight guys to sit on one bed with one's head on the other's shoulder). But I don't think that he'd appreciate that. Not proper, straight-laced Bobby, who doesn't mind having a girlfriend he can't even touch (although they're probably way past that little obstacle by now. Ew.), who probably thinks being gay is a state of mind, and most importantly, who is straight.

Yeah, I may not have mentioned, but I have a thing for him. One of my first and best friends, and the most important reason that I came back to this old place.

Who is also, undeniably, male. I guess was easier to deal with being gay after I had learned to deal with the fact that I'm a mutant. One kinda dwarfs the other, if you know what I mean. Whatever, the fact remains that I was lonely, and uncertain and just a little bit scared (although wild horses won't make me admit that now), and no one wanted to make the effort to deal with me. Then he came, and walked into my room and grinned nervously, and I don't know how it happened but that was it. And then, it turned into something more, because nothing in my life can ever be easy.

"Oh" is all I can manage to say.

"Hey, John?"  
"Pyro." I correct him, absently.

"Whatever. Back at Alcatraz-" I tense up "-why didn't you kill me? I mean, I'm not objecting or anything, but just then, you felt stronger than me. Angry or something. Then you hesitated, or something, and ... Why?"

So he was serious when he said he wanted to talk. I guess I have to try, but I've never been very good at talking about the big, important things. I can barely manage the unimportant shit without screwing something up. "I'll answer your questions, if you'll answer some of mine." He nods, so I continue, "I think we've always been pretty evenly matched, actually. You just... weren't trying as hard as you should have been. And then, when I got the upper hand, I... couldn't. I thought I wanted to, for a while. I had convinced myself that if you were gone, my conscience would go with you, and I could stop feeling like I had made a mistake. Then I saw you, and I couldn't do it. I don't really know why."

Oh, yes I do. Who am I kidding, really? Of course I couldn't kill him, I could barely even fight him. I just wanted, so badly, to break down, and go back to the goody-goodies, just say I was wrong, just so things could go back to the way they used to be. But I couldn't do that either, and it made me feel like some sort of rat in a trap, furious and terrified and not a chance of getting out.

I guess it was a good thing that neither of us really wanted to hurt the other, or one of us would be dead.

"So, my question to you is, um, is..." there are just so many choices, I can't seem to pick, "well, I'll start with this, I guess. Why didn't you kill me, when you had the chance?"

"Well, it's like you said. I couldn't. Hell, I couldn't even bring myself to _want_ to. I mean, I was angry, that you'd joined them, but it was never a question of... killing. I would have dragged you back here myself, if I'd had the chance, actually."

Damn him and his unflinching honesty.

"Or, you know, punched your lights out. I was pretty torn." And he grins, tentatively.

So maybe things aren't so bad. He doesn't trust me, yet, but that might happen eventually. And in the mean time, we're sort-of friends again, at least.

/\/\/\

Wow, they're getting longer, bit by bit. I want to write one per week, but that isn't always going to happen, I'm afraid. So, I'm thinking anytime between tomorrow and two weeks from now is when you can expect the next one to be posted. Until then feedback is greatly appreciated.

Colvine


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I own nothing

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. And I only wish I could find a way to profit off of all this. 'Fraid not.

So, this is my first story. It'll mostly be first person, a bunch of different POV's. The first person is actually bugging me, so it'll be switching around while I get used to it. Any reviews with an opinion about this would be greatly appreciated, and not just because I'm a review whore. Eventually it'll also be a Pyro-Iceman (I prefer John-Bobby, actually, but whatever) thing, so any slash haters, turn back now. Finally, there will be swearing, so kiddies – cover your eyes.

Thanks again to my reviewers for being so lovely and supportive.

**And Then There Were Two**

Bobby/Iceman

It's been an interesting day. I though my heart might actually stop, when I saw him, wandering the halls like nothing had changed. Then I thought that I had probably been drugged or something, because how likely is it that he of all people would be here again?

That's not to say I wasn't angry. I was furious most of the time, actually. Sometimes I just couldn't believe he was really gone. It's why I didn't want anyone else in our room. I think Miss Munroe understood that it was important to me, and so she let me be. I really appreciated that.

Now he's back, and I still don't know what to think. I want to know why, mostly.

Why did he leave, hell, why did he come back? Most of all, though, I want to know why I want so desperately for him to stay. I don't think I would care much if I never know the answers to most of my questions, as long as he stays. It's a scary feeling, sometimes.

I think that he's getting uncomfortable, I sure as hell am, so maybe I'll put off the rest of the questions for a bit. I haven't forgotten though, the way he seems to have forgotten about that ice on the ceiling. It'll be funny when it melts, or I may get punched...

Oh, who am I kidding, I'll definitely get punched. Which is why it's time for bed, before I'm discovered.

"So, goodnight?"

"Yeah, goodnight."

/\/\/\

It's strange, but I slept really well that night. You'd think I wouldn't be able to shut my eyes because, well, I spent the night five feet away from a murderous traitor. But I was out like a light, and it's lucky that I fell asleep first because 'Pyro' snores like a damned freight train, whether he admits it or not.

And then all of a sudden I was wide awake, and he was sitting on top of me, dripping wet.

Um. I get the feeling I should be raising some objections here.

"Wanna know why I'm wet? Because your pretty icy pictures _melted_ all over me! Bastard."

Heh. Oops.

"Uh, yeah, sorry. I kinda forgot about that..." I say sheepishly. I'm looking at the soaking hair falling in his eyes, and trying my hardest not to grin. He says nothing, and abruptly I realize just _where_ he's sitting (straddling my lap) and have a moment of conflict. Most of my mind is telling me to sit up so fast you'd think that he had just set a fire underneath me, but there's something telling me this could all be used to my advantage. I just have time to think; where the hell did that come from? Before I choose option one. He doesn't say anything, only sits on the bed beside me.

"So, um, are you gonna say anything? John?"

"Pyro."

"Whatever," I grin, because he doesn't sound angry anymore, just tired and a bit amused. "What do you want to do now?"

"Well, I can't sleep, _since my bed is soaking_. So, entertain me or I burn your bed to the ground and you can sleep on the floor." Oops, he's back to irate again. I'm good.

"We could... watch movies?"

"At two a.m.?"

"Well, when else? It could be a bit... awkward around the others for a while, and you won't have much free time after this. I bet that they're gonna make you take classes or something, right?" This is a wild guess, but he missed a long time, and probably one of the conditions for staying was that he make up for... lost time.

Oh hell, I've been trying to avoid thinking about this, but what is everyone else going to say? Marie seems to understand, mostly, but that's probably only because of what she saw in my head... I really doubt anyone else will be so quick to accept him. This could be awkward for a while.

He seems to realize that too, because self-doubt and even uncertainty flicker across his face before he remembers himself and the self-assured smirk returns. "You just want to get me on my own."

"Whatever, _John_." I refuse to call him Pyro, and this time he doesn't bother correcting me, just rolls his eyes and reaches for his lighter. I feel a slight sense of triumph, although I couldn't saw why. Maybe I just really wanted to see that movie I was going to watch with Marie and the others, before my life turned on its side, yet again. He seems to have that effect on me.

/\/\/\

That is why, in a nutshell, morning found us not in our beds like good little kids but blinking blearily at the screen and laughing at one of the ridiculous exploits of the characters in the latest movie. We had gone through, I think three, maybe four movies. They were loud, action-filled, utterly pointless and so bad that you just had to laugh.

It's a little surreal, because it's late at night and just the two of us, like before. I'm caught between nervous impatience for the others to arrive and dispel the suspense, and the unlikely desire to just be caught in this strange and uneasy form of limbo with him forever. That's nonsense, of course, because any minute now someone is going to walk in, and all hell is going to break loose, but I'm savouring this while it lasts.

"G'morining Bobby how was – What is _he_ doing here?"

Yeah, there it goes.

/\/\/\

Wow, three chapters already. This is just flying by. I seem to have a thing for ending chapters like that; I suppose that it's easier to switch perspectives when there's a bit of tension in the air. Woo. Review and I will ... love you forever?

Colvine


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. And I only wish I could find a way to profit off of all this. 'Fraid not.

So, this is my first story. It'll mostly be first person, a bunch of different POV's. The first person is actually bugging me, so I might have to switch it around while I get into writing properly. Any reviews with an opinion about this would be greatly appreciated, and not just because I'm a review whore. Eventually it'll also be a Pyro-Iceman (I prefer John-Bobby, actually, but whatever) thing, so any slash haters, turn back now. Finally, there will be swearing, so kiddies – cover your eyes.

**And Then There Were Two**

Kitty/Shadowcat

Now, don't get me wrong. I have seen all sorts of strange things going on in this school. We are, after all, a home for misfit teenage mutants, who often have no idea what to do with themselves. Strange things are practically the norm around here.

What Rogue, Jubilee and I woke up to this morning was unusual enough that it had me speechless for a full minute, which is apparently a great achievement (thanks _so_ much, Rogue). John, or Pyro, or whoever, sitting there on the couch watching a movie like... like he has any right to be here! What's stranger, though, is the way everyone reacted.

Rogue just looked at him and continued on to the breakfast table in the next room, like she already knew. I was, like I said, speechless. Jubilee, who's a little slow in the mornings, had already started asking something before she saw him. John stayed where he was, and looked almost blankly at his lap, with his hair conveniently covering most of his eyes. No, he was looking at his lighter, of course, which is strangely not lit. And Bobby shoots to his feet, trying to dispel the tension, or something else so ridiculous that it would only occur to him. He seems to have put himself directly in between John and us, like he's a human shield as well. That's interesting. I wonder if he's noticed what he's doing, protecting the _traitor_ from _us_.

"Um, good morning Kitty, Jubilee, Marie. How did you sleep?" Bobby is, rather obviously, trying to avoid the issue. Not going to work this time.

"Explain someone." Awkward silence. "Now." Yeah, I'm not entirely tactful before 10 a.m. So sue me.

Before the traitor gets a chance to say anything, Bobby steps in, and asks, "I think he's explained it to enough people for now, right? I mean, Storm let him stay, and I'm okay with him, mostly, and Rogue... well, I'm not sure, but she hasn't slapped him yet, right? So, can we not do this right now? Please?" It's just getting weirder, this morning is. Bobby was the person who was hurt the most by his leaving. He should be angry. He should not be pleading with us, to be a nicer to the poor little traitor pyromaniac defector!

But, I guess the fact that he is defending him is enough for a while. I just nod, and leave in the same direction that Marie did. In fact, we should go talk to Marie because it seems we have a lot to talk about, if she didn't think to tell us about _him_ turning up in the middle of the night!

Then I remember the cause of this whole little uproar of ours, and glance over at him. He hasn't moved much. His hands are still clenching in his lap around the lighter of his, his back still looks uncomfortably rigid, but he's staring at Bobby's back now, instead of his hands. He looks surprised, vaguely grateful, maybe even a bit guilty (he should be), and... Oh, that is not good. Not at all. He's stirred up enough trouble just being here, but if he's running around looking at Bobby like _that_, then the shit is really going to hit the fan soon.

Shit.

Now we really need to talk to Rogue. Maybe she'll know what to about this whole messed up affair.

/\/\/\

"You knew!" My indignant shout rings all through the kitchen where we finally find her, apparently deep in conversation with Logan. The shouting also draws some strange looks, so I lower my voice a bit.

"Didn't you think this was something we'd want to know? Sorry Logan, we'll give her back in a bit!" The last part is shouted over our shoulders as we (carefully) tow her back to Jubilee's room, which is the cleanest, although not by much.

Marie returns my earlier remark rather sharply. "Well, I wasn't sure how to bring it up. 'Oh, that was a great movie guys, and guess who's back?' What exactly should I have said?" She seems to realize that she's getting more aggressive than she needs to be, because she adds, "And, I wanted some time to think, too."

"Fine, fine, you're right about that, I guess. So, what do you think?"

"I... don't know," she replies, sheepishly.

I snort, and Jubilee finally speaks up, breaking her unusual silence. "I think we should let him be. He'll have enough problems with the people who don't even know him, right?"

"Ignoring I can do," I finally say, carefully. "But he'd better be on his best behavior." This draws a disbelieving scoff from Marie. I wonder if I should bring up the other thing, or just drop it all, and talk about something else.

I decide in the end to just ask her, "So, what were you talking to Logan about?" I don't need our whole world centering around him, just because he's back.

/\/\/\

And, my chapters are shrinking again. I thought I should tell the story using more than just my two main characters. I also realized that I have been neglecting the adults in favour of my strange almost-not-really-romance. I shall fix that. Well, I'll try, anyways. Until next time.

Colvine


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. And I only wish I could find a way to profit off of all this. 'Fraid not.

So, this is my first story. It'll mostly be first person, a bunch of different POV's. The first person is actually bugging me, so I might have to switch it around while I get into writing properly. Any reviews with an opinion about this would be greatly appreciated. Eventually it'll also be a Pyro-Iceman thing, so any slash haters, turn back now. Finally, there will be swearing, so kiddies – cover your eyes.

**And Then There Were Two**

Ororo Munroe/Storm

I miss the Professor and Jean often, but I rarely envy them their abilities. I can't imagine what a school full of teens (scared, angst-ridden, defiant) must have sounded like. But just this once, I really would love to know what is going through the kids' heads, because I'm a little worried about John, or Pyro if he prefers.

I know that Logan thinks I'm too trusting, letting him back in. Really though, they're just children, and we all make mistakes as kids. They have more power, and so their mistakes are... bigger. I don't think that means they shouldn't get second chances. He just needs to earn his forgiveness, like everyone else.

The one thing I am very thankful for is the universal amnesty, because harbouring a wanted criminal would be something I wouldn't be able to do - I won't endanger all of my stundents for the safety of one. It was a strange move on the part of the government, perhaps meant to make up for their massive overreaction with their "cure" guns, or maybe it was because they had already neutralized the most important and powerful of the mutants (especially Magneto and Mystique). How foolish they must feel now.

There have been reports of the cure wearing off, especially in the mutants with stronger powers. We, of course, have definite evidence of it wearing off in the case of poor Marie. Those of us that took the cure voluntarily are wearing off faster because they received smaller doses than the extremely dangerous amounts in the guns.

The massive dosage delivered in the cure guns will take longer to dissipate, but we can expect Magneto to return. And, unless he has changed at last, he will return with a vengeance. I dread that day, and the only consolation we have is that Hank says that there are some scientists studying the mutation and the cure. They suspect we have many months, possibly even years before Erik returns to his former glory.

In the wake of this revelation, of course, comes a renewed desire for a Mutant Registry. People are also calling for a permanent method of "curing" us. We can only pray that cooler heads will prevail, and that they remember what happened last time they tried to cure us.

/\/\/\

It's rather a morbid thought, but the majority of our teachers are gone, or dead. We'll need to find people to replace them soon, but I really can't bring myself to do so just yet. We might have to soon though, because after the fiasco at Alcatraz, new students are just pouring in. It seems that we earned ourselves something of a reputation as the 'good guys'.

The atmosphere in the school is strange, as though we're just waiting for the next disaster. It wasn't like this before, and I don't like it.

/\/\/\

Ridiculously short, I know. Even this sad little thing took me two hours, so I figured I would give it to you all earlier to apologize for the overall not-goodness. I just can't seem to get into her head. I don't have any great big disaster planned, but if I can manage to write one, it will come into play eventually. More likely I will find a way to write in Magneto or Mystique, because their characters are just soooo awesome. (I'm totally a fan girl for the bad guys, I just can't help myself.) I think I am going to have to go back to the focus of my story, because I can't seem to write the adults very well.

Love, Colvine


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. And I only wish I could find a way to profit off of all this. 'Fraid not.

So, this is my first story. It'll mostly be first person, a bunch of different POV's. The first person is actually bugging me, so I might have to switch it around while I get into writing properly. Any reviews with an opinion about this would be greatly appreciated. Eventually it'll also be a Pyro-Iceman thing, so any slash haters, turn back now. Finally, there will be swearing, so kiddies – cover your eyes.

**And Then There Were Two**

John/Pyro

I can't believe I forgot the daily drama and excitement around here. I think it's a result of sticking a multitude of angst-ridden teens with an assortment of random and destructive powers into a building with rather minimal adult supervision. I mean, it helped that some of the staff could read our minds, but still. It's crazy in here sometimes, like a bloody loony bin.

Classes aren't as ridiculous as they used to be. They've finally embraced the idea that we should learn to use our powers, not suppress them. It's still painfully boring, and one-on-one classes are not helping. I wonder, sometimes, what possessed me to come back to this place. But, on the other hand, maybe I'm complaining too much. They feed me, and there's no anti mutant bullshit circulating, so it's better than almost anywhere else I could go.

It's easier without the professor. That's not to say I didn'trespect the old guy or anything like that (becuase really, how can you not?). It was just difficult to deal with the extreme pacifist rhetoric, because I agree with it sometimes, in theory, but sometimes it just doesn't work out. I sure as hell won't lie down and let humans walk all over me just because I'm a little different (better) than they are. If it comes down to it, I would fight, unfair advantage be damned.

/\/\/\

"How're classes going?" Smug bastard doesn't start his last year of school until next month, and I swear he's rubbing it in my face.

"Oh, they're just great. All I've ever wanted is to spend hours on end with a teacher and no one else to amuse me." I wonder if he detects the sarcasm. I was ever so subtle.

He laughs and declares, "Well then, I'll entertain you to make up for it. What should we do?"

This causes my throat to go dry, and I think my mouth may be gaping. It takes a few seconds for my brain to retake control of my thought processes and decide that he didn't mean what it sounded like he meant, but by then I have come up with quite a few suggestions of how he could 'entertain' me. None of them make it through my mouth, thankfully.

"Uh, why don't you think of something instead?" is all I can manage.

"Hmmm. We could, play video games?" He catches my look. "No? Well, I'm not even going to think about another movie. Swimming is over-rated. Want to go to the mall?"

"Whatever. Anywhere but here," I decide, "I want to avoid the dirty looks and accusations as long as possible."

With a warning from Logan, ("You light so much as a match out there kid, there will be trouble." Have I mentioned how much I hate being called kid? Well, I hate it.) we depart.

/\/\/\

I don't know what it is about the mall that draws people in droves, but there is nothing to do here! I should not be enjoying myself. I'm sitting in a dirty greasy food court surrounded by loud, irritating people. I just consumed a burger that probably took ten years off my life expectancy all by itself.

But I'm absolutely content sitting here listening to Bobby go on and on about something or the other – I actually stopped listening a while ago in favour of watching the way his jaw moves and how his hands fly about animatedlywhen he talks.

This isn't even close to my idea of happiness (honestly, I don't know what is), but right now, I can't think of anywhere I would rather be. I think there's something wrong with me.

/\/\/\

It's about eight, and we're back from an uneventful trip. Normally I would be up until the small hours of the morning, but tonight I just want to sleep, so I wander back to our room to have a shower. Really, I need some time away from Bobby because I'm finding it harder to think clearly around him. The shower helps too, and it's so hot that it actually stung when I stepped in.

When I return to the room, I find him lying on his back staring at the ceiling with a faint smile on his face. Instead of saying something I opt to just sit on my own bed, watching him absently. It's a while before either of us breaks the silence, but I eventually have to ask, "So, what's the question for tonight?"

"I was actually thinking about that... What was it like, traveling with Magneto? I mean, how different was it from staying with us?"

That's a strange one. I wonder what he's thinking about, that he wants to know this. "It was really similar, sometimes, like we still had to train and there was a feeling like you get here; kind of like, we're stuck together whether we like it or not, that kind of thing. And then all of a sudden, it would be completely a different environment, because one thing I haven't encountered here is the bloodlust and anger that Magneto whipped up in the others, especially the newcomers."

"Who?"

"Ah, the other mutants we picked up, they were practically a gang all on their own. Called themselves the Omegas or something."

"Oh. Okay. So, what do you want to know?" He seems nervous for some reason. Oh, but I have a good question, even if it does make me slightly bitter.

"I thought Marie took the 'cure', so why is she still here?" There is also a silent addition to this question; what's going on between the sweethearts? If I think about it (although I try not to), I haven't seen them together more than twice in the last two days. I wonder what's happening.

"Ah. That's actually a long one. You tired? I could explain tomorrow instead." Hah, nice try, you're not getting out of this one. "Not too tired to hear all about the two little lovebirds," I say, smirking at him halfheartedly.

Unexpectedly, he grins at me, like he knows something I don't. "That's right, you don't know. Well, that makes the explanation even longer..."

"Okay, get on with it then," I snap when he trails off, still grinning at me like a bloody Cheshire cat.

"So, you're right, Marie got the cure," and I'm really glad he doesn't mention how I knew about her getting the cure, "but the mansion was nearly empty at the time, and she doesn't really have anywhere else to go, so she stayed. And, obviously, I could finally touch her without fainting dead away or dying or something." I nearly cringe at this, because no matter how fond I am of them both, I don't want to hear about Bobby doing anything with somebody else.

He doesn't seem to notice, since he's still staring at the ceiling. He continues, "It was strange, though. Once I finally could touch her, Iguess I... didn't really want to. I mean, not in a... romantic way," he gestures obscurely, and the motion of his arm captivates me for a second. "I just wasn't attracted to her anymore. It felt like... something was missing. I don't know how exactly to explain it. It was even worse when I tried explaining to her, but Marie's always known what I mean to say, better than I do even. We're still friends, thankfully, but no more," he makes a face at me, "lovebirds."

It takes me a minute to absorb what he's just said, and then I'm so happy I could kiss him,barely even listening, but Bobby is still talking, and he looks serious so maybe I should pay attention for a bit longer.

"She touched people a lot, the first two months or so. Not, like, in a creepy way just liketappingsomebody's shoulder or grabbingtheir hand. We all understood why, as if she was trying to make up for lost time. I think she was just desperate for human contact.

Then, sometime last month, right before the first reports of the cure failing started coming up in the news, it happened. She went to grab my wrist to catch my attention, and her power must have come back, because the next thing I remember is waking up in the infirmary with Marie sitting beside the bed lookingpanicked. They say she nearly froze the entire room before she realized what had happened. She's also absorbed a few of my memories or emotions or something, apparently. Uh, yeah, that's about it."

Suddenly it's looking a little more worthwhile to stay here. I can feel a smile creeping across my face, but it would be a bit cruel to be grinning like a fool right now, so I guess it's time for bed. I even feel a little bit of sympathy for Rogue, now that she isn't stealing attention meant for me. All I do is say "Oh. Er, goodnight then."

/\/\/\

I thoughtI would get sooo much more writing finished over the break, but it turns out I have no focus whatsoever. Sorry. Another sorry to all the Rogue-haters out there, but I rather liked her (before she got in the middle of one of my favourite slashy pairings), so I figured I would try to be nice to her. And I hope this answers some of the questions about the relationship betweenthe two of them. I always saw it more as a friendly thing anyway.

Colvine


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. And I only wish I could find a way to profit off all this. 'Fraid not.

So, this is my first story. It'll mostly be first person, a bunch of different POV's. The first person is actually bugging me, so I might have to switch it around while I get into writing properly. Eventually it'll also be a Pyro-Iceman thing, so any slash haters, turn back now. I'm turning into a massive abuser of commas also, just a warning. Finally, there will be swearing, so kiddies – cover your eyes.

**And Then There Were Two**

Bobby/Iceman

It's been an uneventful few days. John has been hiding out (although he'd never admit that's what he's doing), either in our room or classes. We still exchange questions at night, but nothing important has come up, just catching up on how things are going here. Sometimes we just talk about random things, like favourite colours.

My days are getting a little boring. There's no threat creeping up on us for the first time in what feels like years, and every one is just basking in the calm. It's nice, but uneventful. We've been to movies, gone swimming, played video games, we've gone to the mall... Boredom, or possibly cabin fever, is setting in. I could, technically go home, but I don't want to just yet. I think it's time to find another source of amusement.

John mentioned that Ms. Munroe wanted to "assess the changes in his abilities", which means they'll be grilling him in the danger room. I could watch, because that would definitely be... interesting.

/\/\/\

I lied when I said it would be interesting to watch John in the Danger Room. It's actually more of a guilty pleasure for me. Watching him manipulate fire has been captivating for as long as I can remember knowing him. He hasn't changed much since I last saw him; he's just a lot more confident about what he does now.

The way it suddenly looks as though there is nothing there but him and the flames, and the way his eyes take on a reddish, fiery tinge and seem to glow with wild, glorious power, it's mesmerizing. Especially when he is fighting, or working with large fires, his entire body is involved with the directing and manipulating it. His movements take on an ethereal, deadly kind of grace, motions flowing like the mist. He throws the fire outward, arms flying forward. Then, flames circle behind him to catch the enemy trying to catch him unawares, shoulders and back twisting effortlessly.

I don't really see what's going on so much as I watch his motions and the corresponding bursts of flame. It's so much better than television, but more consuming at the same time. I barely even notice Storm, Logan and an anonymous-looking new teacher also absorbing the spectacle.

I certainly don't notice Marie approaching. I don't even register her presence until a gloved hand on my shoulder breaks me out of my reverie.

"Ah! Oh, hi Marie. What's going on?" I'm distracted, and a little impatient to return to my new favourite hobby.

"Nothing really, I was just wondering..." she doesn't seem to know what to say, so I return to watching John. Eventually she perseveres. "I wanted to make sure you're okay. You seem... ah, happier I guess. I suppose we have him to thank him for that. You know, I am glad he's back. I just... it seems too good to be true, doesn't it?" She's trying to say something, without coming out and actually saying it. I just wish I knew what.

"I'm okay Marie, don't worry about me. How are you?" I'm a little worried about her, after the cure went south. She was trying not to worry us, but it was obvious that she was upset, and a little scared that she would never get to really touch someone again. I feel sorry for her sometimes, although she'd laugh if I said it.

"I'm fine, really I am. I'm not going to break or anything, you all don't need to act like I'm made of glass or something. Of course I was disappointed, but life goes on, right?"

"Yeah, you're right." We stand side by side, leaning against the wall near the window. I start drifting off, and find myself gazing idly into the Danger Room again. Suddenly she sighs and straightens up.

"I think I'll leave again. Your attention is obviously elsewhere." She accompanies this mystifying remark with a small, sly smile. Then it turns into an outright grin, and she leaves. Girls are confusing sometimes.

/\/\/\

"Ha! I win! None can best me! I reign supreme!" I am kicking Peter's ass here, whether he admits it or not.

"Yeah, yeah. We still have two rounds to go." Oh.

"I knew that." And of course, my character picks that moment to get his stupid self shot in the head. "Aagh!" That's how he wants to play then? Fine. It's on. A contest of wills, a battle to the death, with only one victor to be... Damn. I have to stop with the internal monologues. He just got shot, again, and I just lost, again.

"Oh yeah, you reign supreme." One day, I will beat him, I swear. One day.

"So... our resident psycho pyromaniac's back?"

"Oh, um yeah. He just... turned up." It's really hard to tell how Peter feels about stuff. I think he just turns stone-faced whenever he starts thinking.

"Okay." That's it? Excellent. It's time to return to my quest for video game supremacy.

"What'll it be this time? Mortal Combat? Halo? I'm willing to try Super Smash Bro.'s at this point. There must be a game you suck at, and I will find it!" He laughs at me good-naturedly, and grabs the next game, in which I he will probably own me, again.

/\/\/\

I've returned to my room, to nurse my wounds. I'm stubborn, but even I know when to quit (and I think he beat me at almost every game we've got in there).

I may have fallen asleep (it's pretty late), then John walks in and startles me into wakefulness again. His hair is slightly messed up and his face still has a faint flush. He honestly looks like he was making out with some girl in a closet somewhere. I could swear I feel irrationally irritated for a second before I remember that he looks this way from the time he just spent in the Danger Room. Weird.

I close my eyes again, consider trying to return to sleep, and then decide against it. Instead, I ask lazily how it went.

"Great." I look over in surprise and he continues, "I think they're finally going to try to teach us to embrace our power instead of hiding it away like cowards. And, she was 'impressed with my control.' They can say what they like about Magneto, but he understands mutants, and their powers, and he didn't want us to repress who we are."

When he talks like that, so excited and involved, it makes me happy. At the same time, I'm a little scared by what makes him excited and involved; it was what made him leave before, and I would hate it if he were gone again. So I avoid the subject, and just ask about the anonymous teacher-looking woman in the room looking down on the Danger Room.

"She's just some new teacher. She's human." That's strange, why would we have a human teacher here? It might get... awkward. The whole affair apparently annoys John, and he continues, "Apparently there's some idea floating around that this place isn't actually a school but a mutant outpost, training us to be some kind of army. So, Storm hires a human teacher, to dispel some of the suspicion. Of course, she's been very outspoken about equal rights for mutants; they're not stupid enough to hire some sot of anti-mutant fanatic."

"That's understandable, I guess. We are kinda training for combat here, sometimes."

"Technically yeah, but only so we can," he utters the next phrase with the utmost disdain, "_control our powers_. And how did you know about Mrs. Whatever-her-name-was? She was watching me in..." Oops, busted.

"Uh, yeah. I may have been watching the Danger Room, for a minute, while you were in there. I'm not like, following you or anything, it's just, you're... you were amazing, actually." I always seem to say more than I want to when I'm nervous. He's giving me a weird, disbelieving look, like any minute now, I'll say something like 'just kidding, sucker'. I wonder why; surely, people complimented him all the time over in mutant radical camp. The thought makes me a little irritated again, and I have to wonder, 'what the hell is wrong with me?'

"I, uhm, thanks. So, anything interesting happen while I was being attacked by virtual monsters?"

"Not much," I say, grateful for the change of subject. "It's really boring here, actually, but I'm hardly going home anytime soon," a guilty look flies across his face at the mention of my family, "so I actually spent most of the day getting pummeled by Peter in video games, or watching you." And, I've said more than I want to, again. He grins, evilly if you ask me.

"What, am I that irresistible? I knew my powers weren't limited to fire; I also make repressed straight boys come out of the closet!"

"Shut up. You're just jealous because I don't have to be in class all day. Pervert." I grin back at him, and then our conversation degenerates into childish barbs, and ends up with me tossing my pillow at his head.

"Goodnight, idiot."

/\/\/\

This is frustrating. I have to keep checking my writing, to make sure that I'm not turning them into girls or something. Boys so are frustrating sometimes! Gr. Anyways, I'm hoping to start writing longer chapters, and I want to introduce the romantic element of their relationship soon, but I'm not sure how to do it.

Colvine


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I own nothing

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. And I only wish I could find a way to profit off all this.

So, this is my first story. It'll mostly be first person, a bunch of different POV's. The first person is actually bugging me, so I might have to switch it around while I get into writing properly. Eventually it'll also be a Pyro-Iceman thing, so any slash haters, turn back now. I'm turning into a massive abuser of commas also, just a warning. Finally, there will be swearing, so kiddies – cover your eyes.

**And Then There Were Two**

Marie/Rogue

(**AN:** Sorry)

Boys are idiots. Maybe just my friends, or maybe they're all like this, but you don't see girls being so ridiculously, stubbornly in denial. Honestly, how long can two people pretend they feel nothing but platonic affection for each other? Idiots, one and all.

I want to help them along, if only to get rid of the tension that seems to come up whenever they're in the same room, but at the same time, I can see a lot of entertainment value in watching them fumble around each other and try to ignore what ever they've got going on between them. So, I guess I will just watch, and see how they manage on their own. This might actually be kinda interesting.

Two more weeks of freedom, then we have to go back to classes; one final year, and then we're free. The real question is what we do after the year is up. Where can we go? Some of us are bound to stay here, of course. I, for example, don't really have anywhere else to be. But we can't all be teachers and assistant teachers, and so some of us are going to have to go out there, to deal with a world that is still angry, suspicious and afraid of us.

Obviously, some mutants are alright in regular society, but for someone like me, who could kill you by accidentally touching your skin, or Warren, who has a pair of (admittedly, awesome) wings springing from his shoulder blades. People like Kitty, she walks straight through walls and doors if she doesn't pay attention, even John, who tends to set things alight and heat rooms right up whenever he gets angry (which, for the record, is often). We will all have trouble, because our powers are so obvious that we'll scare people. And one thing I know about people: when they're scared, they aren't reasonable. In fact, they can get downright crazy.

But, I can't really deal with any of that until it actually happens, so I think I'm just going to go out and do something interesting, take my mind off the future for a while.

* * *

Gr. Maybe DDR isn't as easy as it looks. Or maybe I'm just a klutz. But whatever, I will never play that stupid, evil, hellish game again. Ever.

Why, you might ask? We go out to a movie, and on the way out, we see the devil-machine, and decide to play a bit (that really means Jubilee, who is apparently the grand master of DDR, wanted to play, and made us come along). First, Jubilee beat me at it, and I think; fine, that's okay, I've never played before. Then, Kitty plays me, and I decide that I will win this match (she's never played either). Everything is going well, I'm actually ahead of her by a few points, and then it all goes downhill. I slip, or trip, or tangle myself in something. Jubilee says it was the most amazing and awe-inspiring crash she has ever seen. I may have given her a rather unpleasant suggestion about where she could shove her comment. Finally, I find myself in an oh-so-dignified heap beside the devil-machine.

That is how I ended up sitting on the rec room couch with my leg propped up and covered in an ice pack, alone. As soon as they got me back here, Kitty and Jubes both deserted me, the evil harpies.

There's a beautiful, wonderful pack of Oreos on the counter in the kitchen, about ten steps away from me. I've been looking at them longingly for the past ten minutes, but the whole mansion seems deserted, because no one has passed through here yet to get them for me. The whole universe is plotting against me, I think. Then, suddenly, I see a savior, in the form of someone bringing me the Oreos, and I didn't even have to ask. Maybe the world isn't so bad after all.

Never mind. God hates me, because the Oreo-fetcher is none other than John.

"Uh, Bobby said you're... the cure didn't really work for you, and that you accidentally... "

Well, this is different. Normally he's angry, superior, and a lot calmer. What's got him so flustered I wonder? I'm not making this easy for him, though, so I just raise an eyebrow and munch speculatively on a cookie. Looking irritated, he continues, "He said that you took in memories, or thoughts or something, when you touched him. And you touched me too, when... I just wanted to know if you... what you got from my head."

Oh. Of course, he wouldn't like it if anyone else knew how he feels about Bobby, I bet. Well, he did get my cookies for me, so I'll save him some anxiety and pretend I know nothing. "Not much. I mean, I saw a lot of things burning, obviously, and I got the impression of anger, and frustration, and affection for someone, and a really vivid image of the ocean." All of which is true, really. I just avoided telling him the interesting bits. He seems to calm down a bit, but the there's still a fierce, tense cast to his shoulders. He makes to leave, but I tell him to wait up.

"Wait! You've been here for nearly a month, and I've seen you twice. Anyway, everyone else has abandoned me, so you can keep me company." He gives me a confused, apprehensive look, and I sigh. "Oh, come on, I'm not gonna yell at you, just sit down already!" He sits, carefully, on the other end of the couch, and I almost growl at him in frustration.

"You're being really strange. Normally we would have been in a fight already, why aren't you acting so subdued?"

"I guess I had a change of heart, and had to come back here to accommodate it." I can imagine what that change of heart involved. "But I had to swallow a lot of my pride to do even that, and so I can't cause trouble here. That means no getting in fights and setting things on fire. I had some practice with that, anyways," and the look in his eyes tells me that he had to learn, the hard way, to control his temper. His voice wavers for a second, then he forges on, like he's decided that he wants to get the whole thing over with in one go. "I also kind of thought that you and Bobby too, had a right to be angry at me, so I tried to, you know, not get angry at anything you said to me."

That's a very John thing to think, and the familiarity of it makes it really come home to me that he is actually back. "You're right; we should be pissed off with you. But honestly, I've always had a bit of a soft spot for pretty boys, moreover ones that are telling me that they're wrong." That's the closest he's going to get to a statement of forgiveness, and he knows it. He also looks highly affronted at the whole 'pretty boy' thing, which is exactly why I said it.

He finally relaxes and sits like a normal person on the couch, and grins tentatively at me. I smirk back, which turns out to be a mistake. He reaches over and snatches away the Oreos again, declaring, "I am not a pretty boy." Damnit, there go my cookies again.

* * *

Okay, I know, a few of you are willing to crucify me for using her in the story and not burning her to a crisp. Sorry. Also, 1000 hits! Whoo! And thanks to J_ustAnAmamteur, _my steadfast reviewer.

Colvine


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. And I only wish I could find a way to profit off all this.

So, this is my first story. It'll mostly be first person, a bunch of different POV's. The first person is actually bugging me, so I might have to switch it around while I get into writing properly. Eventually it'll also be a Pyro-Iceman thing, so any slash haters, turn back now. Finally, there will be swearing, so kiddies – cover your eyes.

**And Then There Were Two**

John/Pyro

So, that's one problem down at least. She has no idea. Now, I just need to figure out where I know that woman from... Whatever, I'll deal with it later. For the next two days, I am free! Then, of course, they resume the process of "educating" me, and I wish them good luck. Right now, I have a week of freedom before life goes back to whatever it is that passes for normal around here.

I think it's time to celebrate my way. Which requires alcohol. Hm, I may have to get inventive here...

* * *

"Drake!" He falls out of bed, and glares at me blearily. Honestly, this is just sad. Who has nothing better to do than sleeping on a Friday night? He should be grateful I'm here; he would have no excitement in his life without me. "Wake up, it's time to celebrate."

"The hell's goin' on? Wha' time's it?" He finally opens his eyes enough to check the clock, and then scrambles back onto his bed to glare at me in earnest. It's actually kinda endearing. "Why'd you wake me up? Can't we celebrate some other time, when normal people are awake?"

"No, 'cause then someone would notice us acting all drunk." I grin at his longsuffering look – you woke me up for this? "See, it turns out that Wolverine is much less careful about his alcohol than the professor or Summers ever were." I offer him one of the many beer bottles I just 'borrowed' from Logan. He sighs resignedly, rubs his eyes (like a sleepy kid) and takes it. "Alright, you win. Just wondering, what are we celebrating again?"

"My release from the cruel torments of school, of course!" I wave a bottle theatrically, forgetting that I had just opened it and spilling some on my shirt. Bobby scoffs as he tries to take a drink, and ends up snorting it up his nose, then slamming it hurriedly onto the table and making a strange, distressed noise.

We stop, share a look, and then begin laughing uncontrollably. Gasping for breath, I sit on the floor and lean my back against a bed – I think it's his, because I can smell him on it. I lean a little closer into the blankets and sigh, one hand resting on my stomach, which aches from all the laughter.

He collapses next to me, the side of his left leg just touching my right. "Whatever. I think you're just crazy." That may have some truth to it, also. I'm nuts: I want my best (only) friend, I've come back to this nutty, oppressive place, I joined mutant terrorists because I was so angry, felt so helpless, and even now, it doesn't take much to send me back into the furious state of mind. It feels like fire, when I'm angry. It's hot, and wild, and so gleefully powerful, and you just know someone's gonna get burned. And he's still touching me, he doesn't even notice that he's got me breathing faster, or that I'm filled with nervous energy, and that just being near him is making my heart speed up.

I think it's time to get drunk, before I think much more. I don't like where this train of thought is taking me.

* * *

"Ceilings... don't move, do they?" Bobby, while less plastered than I am, is well on his way. My contribution to the conversation is limited to a giggle. A manly giggle, though. Heh. "Seriously, man, do they? 'Cause somthing's spinning, and it sure ain't me." I love the way he slurs his words together.

"You're an idiot," I laugh. He tries to elbow me, but misjudges the distance and instead hurls his arm slightly in front of me. The lack of resistance is enough to make him topple into my lap, where he starts snickering like a little girl. I shift, uncomfortable with his proximity. "Uh, are you just gonna stay there?" He sighs, and rolls sideways onto the floor.

We sit in silence for a time, both lost in thought. Suddenly, he shifts onto his elbows, and I meet his eyes. Wow. Maybe he feels a wow too, because neither of us says anything, we just keep staring. Eventually, he breaks the silence, saying, "Let's go outside."

"But... why?"

His brow wrinkles rather adorably (although he'd hit me for calling him that) as he ponders this question. "There's stars and," he waves his arm in an all-encompassing gesture, "stuff, out there. S'nice. And you're too whiny to go out in the cold." I scowl at him, irritated. "Am not." There is a pause, because we're both too mule headed to concede any ground. I relent, at last. "Fine, let's go, then."

Getting off the ground is a complicated affair, with many stumbles and missteps. Finally, both relatively upright, we set off. Walking through the halls, we speak in exaggerated whispers and shush each other, laughing quietly under our breaths. The warm night air has a slightly sobering effect, thankfully. I sit on the grass, with my back to the school, and then lie on the ground to stare at the sky. I take another deep breath of the warm air, feeling curiously content, then say, "Yeah, it's alright out here." He sits off to the side, and nods quietly.

I stop staring at the sky, and look instead at the back of his neck. If I sit up, my mouth would be within inches of it. I wonder what he tastes like.

Thinking like this is not helping my state of mind, at all. But damn it, he's distracting me! Maybe I should tell him to quit it. Yeah, that'd go over real well – Hey Bobby, quit being so damned perfect all the time, would you! I kick him lightly on the leg, irritated with my own infatuation, and in dire need of a distraction. He asks me quietly, "What was that for?"

I shrug at him. Then I pull out my lighter, and start playing with the flame. I start with simple slashes of light, and then move up to intricate, twisting designs that briefly light the night before flashing brilliantly into nothing. It works, because I find myself completely involved in the fire. Almost. I glance at him, and nearly let go of the fire when I see him. He isn't watching the display like I had thought; he's just looking at me. No expression, or anything, just... looking. It was kind of weird, really.

I try to think of other things, but my mind keeps returning to the way he was watching me, and I can't concentrate. "Hey," I nudge him with my foot again, and he looks away abashedly, "let's go back in."

"Uh, yeah."

We return to the room, but the silence that settles this time is uncomfortable, not companionable. I try to break the silence, asking, "Hey, why are you still doing classes? I was sure I caught you wearing the leather suit when..." Belatedly I realize when I saw him wearing uniform. The whole fight has become something that we talk about rarely, if ever. I suspect this is more for my comfort than his.

He turns to face me, appearing to think it over, even though it's a simple question. "Well, I am technically part of the team, and so's Kitty. I get to help with training, the younger kids especially, and I think Storm expects me to stay here once I'm finished with school. Maybe to teach or something. But while we were training for combat, we sort of left the actual school stuff to rot, and so I have to finish that first."

"Right." Why is it so hard to talk to him? Every time I try, every coherent thought seems to flee my mind. He's driving me crazy, and he doesn't even understand why. This whole stupid situation is so typical of my life.

* * *

I don't really spend enough time around drunk guys for this to be accurate, so please correct me if this seems off, or something.

Colvine


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I own nothing

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. And I only wish I could find a way to profit off all this.

**And Then There Were Two**

Bobby/Iceman

Every time, I swear I will never do this again. And every time, I do it anyways. I am such an idiot sometimes. Now my head hurts, and my mouth tastes like dead subterranean rodent. Stupid John.

"Hey, get up!" And the bastard doesn't even have the decency to get properly hung over. The rest of the time, he's like a slug until after ten in the morning, but when I feel like crap, he's suddenly perversely cheerful. Stupid John.

I grunt at him unintelligibly, and burrow deeper into the blankets, pointedly telling him to leave me and my aching head in peace. But if he did what people told him to, he wouldn't be John, now would he?

"Come on, it'll only get worse if you stay in there." This time the replying grunt may have been more to the tune of "Fuck off".

"Well, I did have coffee, but if you're gonna be that way about it..." I sit up, glaring at him half-heartedly as I do so. He grins at me and hands over the item that is comparable to ambrosia in my weakened state.

"I had forgotten how bad your hangovers are," and I would really like to throw something at him, because that is not the smile of someone sharing sympathy. That is the smile of someone laughing at your misery. "D'you want breakfast or something?" He looks over at the clock, "Well, technically, it's lunch by now, but whatever."

I look at him warily, and then nod. "You can cook?"

"How hard could it be to make toast or an egg?" He catches my look, and laughs. "I'm kidding. Seriously, you don't know how to make food? How do you plan to survive?"

"Fine, lemme see you cook something edible, then."

The kitchen is empty save for a few younger kids who look at John with wide eyes and then flee when he turns to look at them. I sit down and cradle my head in my hands, trying to shield my eyes from the god-awful light.

A few moments pass, and I reluctantly raise my head at the smell of eggs frying. "So you weren't kidding. You can actually cook."

He spares me a condescending look. "Bobby I can control fire. How incompetent would I have to be to burn something, really?" Oh, right.

He finishes, drops some in front of me and starts wolfing down his own food. Instead of eating, I watch him, amused. He catches my look and says defensively, "What? I'm a growing boy!" I snort derisively. "Keep telling yourself that."

I look at the eggs dubiously, not entirely convinced that they're edible.

I guess he must have gotten up, because the next thing I notice is his hand on my shoulder. He's standing behind my chair, way too close for comfort. "I promise I didn't poison them," and I could swear I can feel his breath, and how could I never have noticed how warm he is? My throat locks up, and I swallow painfully before nodding. Thankfully, he backs off, and enough blood reaches my brain to let me think, _What the hell was that?_ I take a bite, and grin in surprise. It's actually really good.

"Okay, so it's not absolutely terrible." He laughs at me and goes off to... do whatever it is John does. Even now, I'm not entirely sure what that is. Whatever it is, I'm grateful because I'm starting to suspect that the reason my head is spinning has more to do with him than with the hangover.

Then, the owner of the beer we consumed in such great quantities, (and thus arguably the cause of all my pain and suffering) walks in and brandishes a bottle vaguely at me by way of greeting. My stomach turns over before I realize that this is in honour of the longstanding tradition, and direct some ice to crawl gracefully up the sides. He shows a grin that wouldn't look out of place on a face sporting horns and cloven hooves, he says, "You could have just asked, you know."

I mutter a hurried response and rush from the room.

* * *

"I think my head is actually going to implode," I whine to Kitty as she watches TV beside me and does her level best to ignore me.

"Well then at least you would stop wallowing in self pity."

I look over, and realize that I have received all the sympathy I'm going to get from her. Anyways, it is certifiably dangerous to get between her and her show; I think she would rather maul an innocent bystander than miss a plot development. My head actually stopped hurting a while ago, but I'm avoiding John for as long as I can. I'm a little unsettled around him lately, like the whole room is suddenly too small and too hot and I can't breathe. Christ, he doesn't even have to be here anymore!

I look sidelong at Kitty, then say, "Right, well I'm just going to go jump off of a building and end my misery now." She barely glances at me. "I was actually born a girl," merits a distracted nod, and, "You look like a cross-dressing monkey," gets a dismissing wave, saying clearly 'Yeah, whatever, just shut up and leave me alone.' I go out on a limb and say, "I think I might like John in a not entirely platonic way."

She scoffs, "Well, obviously. Now go away and let me watch this is peace!"

Typical that she would tune in right then. I'm leaving with whatever pride I have left, because any denials would turn into a case of 'the lady doth protest too much.'

It's not even true, anyways. Seriously, it isn't.

"I'm looking for sympathy somewhere else," I declare, and proceed to walk away, the picture of injured dignity.

"Hey, are you okay? You're walking like there's a stick up your-" I turn and glare at Warren, who is snickering behind his hand, and Marie, who can't seem to hide her grin. "I'm fine."

Kitty, of course, chooses this moment to pipe up from the sofa, "And he's just confessed his undying love for John." Now she can talk? This gets a shocked look from Warren and a surprisingly unruffled one from Rogue. "No I didn't! Don't look at me like that, I did not! Aagh, you people are all evil. I'm leaving!"

"To be with-"

"Dammit, no! If you want full use of your hands ever again, do not complete that sentence!" My threats fall on deaf ears as first Marie, then Kitty and Warren succumb to laughter. Cruel, heartless jerks, to be mocking my state of emotional turmoil.

Not that there is any, of course. None at all.

I need to be... somewhere else. Everything here is making me crazy. Maybe there's something in the water...

* * *

I'm sitting on the grass outside the mansion staring at the sky and wondering why I bothered to come out here. I guess I needed to pick apart my thoughts, and that's always easier when there's nobody to bother you. Right now, I really do need to think, because I might be having a small crisis here. I don't really have anything against being gay or anything, it's just I don't think that being different in one more way is going to make things any easier with my family. They aren't bigoted, but they like everything around them to be nice and 'normal'. I'm not normal by any stretch of the imagination anymore, if this is really how I feel. I probably do, too, it's just that I shouldn't...

I shouldn't be doubting the way I feel about my friend. Who is, for the record, not a girl.

I mean, I like girls, right? Girls are great, they're soft and nice and mysterious, and beautiful... and they have boobs. Boobs are nice. And John isn't soft, and he isn't always nice, beautiful... isn't the word, and he sure doesn't have boobs. He is mysterious though, and he's nice (when no one else is looking), and there's something about him. It isn't beauty by a long shot, but he has a way of catching your attention. He just... walks into the room and suddenly everything else turns into the background.

I guess it might be that he's so different. I'm slow, plodding, and deliberate, and sometimes I want desperately to be the way he is, so alive and reckless, so full to the brim with burning passion. He has some kind of magnetism, some appeal or temptation, and he's drawing me in as surely as a black hole would.

Damn, I'm worse than wavering; I'm in fully over my head. It should have been obvious, really. I mean, I was practically pining after the jerk (although wild horses couldn't drag that particular admission from me, thank you very much) after he left. And I can't imagine trusting anyone else the way I do him, not if they had done what he's done. I'm just... I'm so relieved that he's here again that I haven't really thought why, or whether there are alternative motives involved.

I bet I'm actually a danger to the school, trusting a traitor so implicitly...

And I don't even want to think about what John would say about my... affection. God, he'd punch me. So I can't say anything to him, and I think Marie already knows (that would explain the weird hints she was dropping a while ago). Maybe she's the one I should be talking to; she's good with emotional shit.

What the fuck I'm going to do now is beyond me. I don't exactly do the whole 'unrequited' thing well. Although I expect that suppressed affection is practically my secondary power by now, the way I've been doing it. I drop my head into my hands and groan in frustration.

I go back to my room, and collapse on my bed. I don't know what it is about emotional upheavals, but they're kind of exhausting. I'm pretty sure I'm asleep, or almost, when he walks in. I guess he agrees with my assessment of my own state (sleeping), because he starts changing. This isn't unusual, we're sharing a rather small space as it is. It's just that this time I notice.

I notice every line of his back, I notice every curve of his shoulders, everything. My face heats up, and my chest seems to constrict. I can barely breathe for a minute, and then I pretend to shift in my sleep so I can turn away and burrow deeper into the blankets. I realize, belatedly, the benefits of being oblivious.

* * *

I was swamped by school for a while, my teachers decided that it was a good idea to give three separate tests and a big history project within the same week, sorry about the lack of updates. Anyways, I got a little frustrated with his obtuseness, and made him realize stuff (all the while there was a little in-character Bobby in my head screaming "No way I would think that!"). His thinking is a bit weird, because I see him going off on tangents to avoid the issue at hand. I was wondering who I should write, so if you have a suggestion about who comes next, please tell me what you think.

Thanks,

Colvine


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. And I only wish I could find a way to profit off of this. Oh well.

**And Then There Were Two**

Logan/Wolverine

This place is closing in around me. I don't think I like the feeling of people depending on me. In fact, I think that it may be time to move on again. I've been here too long, and everything reminds me of her. Maybe I'll even take Summers' bike. Some kind of tribute that is.

Not just yet, though. I don't like this new woman that Storm's found. She feels... familiar, and in my experience, that's almost never a good thing.

Now I'm thinking too much. God, I need a drink or something. I check, and what do I find where my beer used to be? Nothing. This is Allerdyce's work, of course.

* * *

Next morning I find the results of my stolen stash staring me in the face. Actually, what I see is Drake nursing a hangover.

I keep watching instead of announcing my presence, and notice Allerdyce draping himself over the kid (although maybe I'm exaggerating a bit). Heh. So it is mutual. I wonder how long it'll take the pair of fools to realize. They probably think they're being subtle, too, staring after each other like lost puppies or something.

Allerdyce is leaving now, and I catch a glance of his face. He looks nearly as shaken up as Drake, and I almost laugh. Instead, I grab a bottle and gesture at Iceman, watching with satisfaction as he turns vaguely green before icing it for me. "You could have just asked, you know."

"Oh, right, um, yeah I'm gonna go now..." He leaves, and I can finally laugh. They're good for entertainment value, at least. It's strange, but without a crisis of some sort (madman trying to rule the world, radicals trying to kill mutants, whatever), I'm feeling a little bored.

My thinking is that this calls for an artificially manufactured disaster. Or I could just read a book or something...

* * *

"Logan? I'll probably regret asking, but what are you doing on the roof?"

"Cleaning it." That's rather obvious, I would have thought, but it appears that Storm needs some clarification.

"Well, perhaps, but most people use ladders. Hardly anyone hangs over the edge like that, with nothing but some magnolias in between them and a broken neck." Well, there is that. But then, I'm not most people, am I? "Oh, and so help me God, if you break them, I will snap your neck myself. You have no idea how difficult it is to propagate the things, and if I have to do it again, there will be suffering for it."

"So your concern was for the bushes, was it? Don't let me cause you any distress then." Laughing, I pull myself back onto the roof, and then drop down, a few feet to the side of the plants and poke them with the end of my boot. "Ugly things, aren't they?" She heaves a long-suffering sigh.

"I don't know how Charles did it. School hasn't even started yet, and already I want to say some very... rude things to some of these parents who call in. Treating their children as though they're diseased, talking on the phone in hushed voices, acting like a mutation is a shameful secret."

"Well, if you need someone to say your 'rude things', I can probably help you," she grins, "but you'll always have people like them, and I can't swear at all of them, though I do try." This earns a small snort. "It's rather miserable, isn't it? Of all the adults that Dr. Xavier took in or taught, we're all that's left."

What can I say to that? I don't think I even really fit the title of taught or taken in, but I doubt that she wants to be the only one left. Suddenly uncomfortable, I cast around for a change of subject. "Your newest stray is corrupting our team," is what comes to mind.

"What? I don't... oh, you mean John. What has he done?" Whoops. I probably shouldn't have said that.

"Ah... nothing, never mind. Bye."

I beat a hasty retreat, but to no avail. As soon as I am out of the range of Storm, Marie comes into view, scowling darkly. "You're scaring small children with that look, and that's my job." I really should learn to think, and then talk.

She shifts her glare to me, then drops it, reluctantly. "You are crazy. All of you, belching, shouting idiots, running on testosterone and machismo, and I could just..." she trails off, thankfully, before she can reach her threats.

Then, as soon as the fury had appeared, it vanishes, and she walks off. Women.

* * *

Thanks to Nataile2202 for the idea (no beerfest, sorry!). I'm going to have to say expect updates every other week, I think.


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Also, this chapter signals the irreversible death of the in-character personas. It's all wishful thinking from here on out.

**And Then There Were Two**

Marie/Rogue

"Ow." I mutter, pulling myself out of bed. I pull on a shirt and a baggy sweater, then wince as I put on my favourite jeans. Finally, I look over at the gloves. I hate them, I really do. They're like a symbol of all the crap that my power puts me through, every stinking day. And then I put the stupid things on, just like I have every morning for a week and a half now.

I limp over to the kitchen and grab some cereal, grumbling expletives under my breath the entire way. Someone laughs, "Well, good morning sunshine." I look up, glaring. Bobby grins at me apologetically, "Sorry. Uh, can I talk to you about something?"

"Yeah, fine," I reply tiredly. "Just let me eat in peace, would you?" He laughs and wanders off. I drop my glare and finish eating what appears to be a milk soaked bowl full of cardboard or something. Yuck. I abandon them in disgust a few minutes later, to seek out Bobby. I find him sprawled over a couch, looking half-asleep.

"So, what did you want to talk about, Bobby?" He jumps, and I snicker. Even with a sprained ankle, I am so ninja.

"Can we go somewhere else? Like, where there are less eavesdroppers?" This pointed remark is directed at Kitty, who is peering over with interest and listening in, unabashedly. I sigh, and walk out towards the gardens, gesturing for him to follow.

We reach a relatively secluded corner, conveniently blocked off. I turn to him, and ask, "Now will you tell me what's on your mind?"

"I, uh..." He trails off, and looks a little uncertain, then asks, "Girls are good with emotional stuff, right?" I could almost laugh at the grimace of distaste that graces his face while he says this. I also get a little frustrated, though. "That is so sexist. Just talk to me, you obtuse idiot!"

"I can't!" He's turning red, in what I think is a mixture of anger and mortification. I decide that now really isn't the time to have my revenge for the 'good morning sunshine' incident, and instead take pity on him. "It's about John, isn't it?" He looks at me, wild-eyed and startled, and I feel a pang in my chest. I'm trying not to be bitter here, I really am, but sometimes I wish I could get that kind of reaction from him. It would be really nice.

"No! I mean, why would you think that? I don't... um... How did you know?"

"I'm psychic. What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, really. It's just, I don't know what to- I think-" He seems to have lost the ability to talk like a normal person, and he's giving me a pained look, like he knows what he wants to say, but not how to say it. I put my hand on his arm and step a little closer. I know what he wants to tell me, but he has to say it himself.

"You know you can tell me any-," someone calling my name cuts me off. John appears from around a corner, and Bobby's head jerks in his direction. John's face, which had been sporting a slight smile, drops, and he says, almost angrily, "Oh, sorry, don't let me disturb you." He turns to leave. Shit. Of course, he would jump to that conclusion, the idiot.

"No, no! Bobby was just leaving." I give the aforementioned fool an encouraging shove, and he stumbles off. I'll have to deal with him later. "What did you want me for, John?" He gives me a startled look, and I sigh. "Were you just calling me for the fun of it, or was there a reason you wanted to talk to me?"

"Oh! Right. Um..." Oh no. I am not doing this again. There is no way I am going to try to drag an admission out of John-stinking-Allerdyce. I couldn't even get Bobby to say a word, and he's downright reasonable compared to John.

"Damn it! You too? Why does every one choose today to have their emotional crises? More importantly, why are you all coming to me with them? I'm just as confused as everyone else!" Whoops. That may have been a little harsher than he deserved. "Sorry. It's been a long day."

He looks at me like I'm mentally unbalanced (frankly, he might be on to something, there). "It's ten o'clock in the morning."

Sighing, I reply, "Yes, I know. Look, the feeling is mutual, okay? I don't know if he knows it yet, but it is. Just trust me on this one." I walk away leaving a confused John in my wake.

* * *

God, this is boring. I don't know how, but every book I try to read lately has turned into War and Peace. This is all their fault. I don't know how and I don't know why, but it is completely their fault. I need entertainment, or I will go completely insane. But what to do?

What the hell. When in doubt, go with television. Except, of course, Kitty is monopolizing it, as usual. Why, I don't know, but I do know that it is certifiably insane to try to get between her and her T.V. so I'm out of luck. Back to wandering aimlessly, I guess. Or, limping aimlessly, if you want to be accurate.

Actually, I kind of left Bobby hanging, maybe I should go find him.

* * *

God, males are idiots. Have I said that before? Well, I'm saying it again. Frankly, it should just be tattooed on their foreheads, like a warning. 'Hi there, I am oblivious and emotionally stunted.' Or maybe 'I couldn't have a meaningful discussion to save my life, and so I hide from well-intentioned people who are only trying to help me." Yeah, that one is for Bobby, definitely.

"Oh hey there, Marie. I was kinda wondering where you were..."

That was not funny. Whatever god-like creature seems to think that my life is like a laugh reel is going to get my boot lodged firmly in their ass if they don't quit it very soon. "Ah. Hey Bobby. I don't suppose you've dealt with your speech impediment yet?" He laughs, and my stomach clenches painfully for a moment.

Damn it, no! I am over this! He is not attractive, he is an idiot.

Just keep telling yourself that.

"Yeah, I'm working on it. This is awkward, but do you... have you ever liked someone that you know you shouldn't?"

An evil grin almost eclipses my face as I look at his awkward and embarrassed one. "Are you asking for advice, or confessing indirectly?"

"What?"

"Well, does this person-who-you-shouldn't-like-but-do have a name? A description? Is there a reason you are madly infatuated with he, she, or it?" Now I'm just being mean, but it's so funny watching him get confused and flustered that I just can't seem to help myself.

"Oh, fine, I'll help you." He gives me a relieved, if confused, smile. "So the first thing you need to think about, is are they worth it? I mean, if you think they are someone you shouldn't want, are they worth the trouble? Is their opinion important enough to hurt you if they say no? This brings me to the next thing. Does this person like you back? I have no magic formula to tell you how to figure that one out, so good luck with that. Finally, can you actually have some kind of relationship with this person, or are they just someone you admire from afar? Or, you know, lust after from afar." He turns red, and maybe I hit a nerve there. I continue, "But really, all I can tell you is at least try to talk to him, right?"

"Uh, yeah." He wanders off, and I don't think I've been much help because even the really great guys that every girl wants won't voluntarily talk about mushy stuff like feelings. Stupid idiots.

God, all it takes is to think about him, and I get frustrated again. This isn't supposed to happen, I should be over him!

I guess I might have been looking a little angrier than usual, because Logan just made some charming remark about scaring children. And of course, I never seem to get the right emotion for the right person, so I snap at him, instead of the person I'm frustrated with. "You are crazy. All of you, belching, shouting idiots, running on testosterone and machismo, and I could just..." God, I need to stop doing this. Stupid Bobby, and his stupid smile and his stupid laugh and his stupid, warm, friendly eyes and his stupid...

Damn it, am I crying? Yes I am. Shit. Well, at least no-one can see me. I really need sleep.

* * *

Wow. 2000+ hits. That is so cool! Thanks, all.

Colvine


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

**And Then There Were Two**

Bobby/Iceman

I'm going crazy, I think. I keep avoiding him, as though all he'd have to do is look at me and he'd see it, like it's tattooed on my face or something. I talked to Marie yesterday, but she just gave me girl-advice. I mean, it's interesting if you want to know how they think, but it doesn't help me much.

Well, maybe it does. Is it worth it the risk? Well, yeah, I think so. I mean, it's just... it... yeah, it is.

Would it hurt if he said no? Definitely. It would hurt like hell, and he'd probably think I'm a freak or something, too.

Does he feel the same way? God, I have no idea.

Could I imagine being with him, or am I just lusting after him 'cause I can't have him? Well, I don't think my subconscious would be so masochistic that it would pick him as the object of my fascination, so I guess it isn't just a lust thing. Fine, maybe she was a little bit helpful.

...Wait, did she say 'talk to him'? She did, she already knows! Shit.

I spring up, suddenly full of nervous energy, and decide to look for her. I'm rushing out of the room as John's coming in, and I careen into him. He hits the wall behind him, and I crash into it _–him_- seconds later. I stare, wide-eyed, at his identical, frozen expression for a minute, unable to move –_forward, forward! He's so close_- until finally, red-faced, I back up hurriedly. I mutter an excuse and an apology and then leave as fast as I can. Not fast enough, though, because I don't miss the hurt look he gives me as I practically run from him.

Shit.

* * *

I never managed to find Marie. She's sneaky, she is. I slunk back to the room after I was sure he would be asleep, and then dropped into bed, exhausted and a little bit miserable. I don't know what to do. I always know what to do! It isn't always the right thing, exactly, but I always know, and now I have nothing.

I don't notice falling asleep. I certainly notice waking up, sweat-covered and hot, the next morning. I really hope that I'm not making a habit of this.

It really sucks that our room is next to the bathroom, because whenever someone decides to have an early morning shower, it wakes John up (it also sucks because somebody sings in there. Badly). That inevitably means that he wakes me up. I think I hear a shower running now, actually. And John hasn't woken me up, either, which is weird. I look over, and he isn't in his bed. That means he's probably the one in the shower.

Which I am not thinking about. And my face is red because... I have a skin condition. Exactly. And now I will return to not thinking about the shower.

Which is no longer running? As the door slides open, I hurriedly grab a book and pretend I'm reading it, trying desperately not to think about him, or it, or anything at all. Thinking only seems to lead to trouble, with me. John's voice comes to me tentatively across the room that is suddenly too small, too hot, and silent. "Hey, are you alright?"

Startled, I look up at him. "What d'you mean?"

"Well," he reaches up to rub the back of his neck, seemingly embarrassed, "you're being weird, and I think you're reading the dictionary upside-down." Shit. I check, and learn that indeed I am trying to glean the meaning of 'ostensible' (which is; _seeming to be true or genuine, but open to doubt_. Ironic, isn't it?), from an upside-down dictionary. Real bright.

"Oh. Um..." I can't think of anything to say to that, really. I am getting an urge to tell him anything and everything, though. I don't think I can open my mouth, and I certainly shouldn't be held accountable for what might come spilling out if I do.

After a few awkward minutes, he seems to try to ask me something. Just like me, though, the words don't seem to make the voyage successfully from his mind to his mouth, but when they do, they sound angry. "Did I... Are you pissed off at me, or something? I mean, you haven't talked to me for days, except when you knocked me into a wall."

"What? No! I'm not pissed off, at you, I swear," I say in a rush. This explains why he seemed hurt, at least.

"Well, then what?" He's getting louder, almost yelling now. I drop the dictionary, and say, quietly, "I don't know."

"Why won't you talk to me? Hell, why don't you even fucking look at me?" My eyes narrow and I stand up, and I yell right back at him, "I don't know, okay? I don't fucking know!" We stand there for a minute; face to face, maybe a foot apart, fists clenched and breathing hard. Then, my lip twists up at the corner, almost a smile, as I consider the hilarity of the situation. This is all it takes, of course, to send both of us into fits of laughter.

"That," I gasp between chuckles, "was the stupidest argument yet."

'No it wasn't," he grins at me slyly, "remember the thing about-" I cut him off quickly. "That never happened. Never." He laughs at me, and I realize that I missed this. Sitting on the floor, doing absolutely nothing. Well, there is when we're mocking each other, or even making the supreme effort to throw things across the room. But really, nothing. The room is still dark this late in the morning (I finally found some new curtains) and everything feels peaceful, and yet somehow surreal. I'm sprawled across my bed, one hand draped over the edge and the other across my stomach, which still aches faintly from laughter.

I tilt my head backwards to study my roommate. He's sitting on his own bed, one leg drawn up; head leant back against the wall. His hair is too long again, wet and falling all over his face. I think he might be sleeping, because his breathing is deep, and even. And really, only while he's sleeping would I be able to watch him unabashedly. He looks more relaxed and unguarded than I've seen him in a while. Hell, more relaxed than I've seen him in years.

I wish it wasn't like this. Either course I pick, I manage to screw myself over. And him too, really. If I don't tell him, I can't seem to look him in the eye. If I do, he'll be disgusted with me. Either way, I lose him even as my friend.

This bites.

* * *

It might be an hour later, and the shower-singer has just woken me up. I wish he hadn't, because my neck really hurts, and the singing isn't getting any better.

It serves me right for falling asleep with my head dangling over the edge of the bed, really. I get up, rubbing my neck to get the blood flowing properly, and notice John still sleeping. This is weird, because he's a very light sleeper, usually. He must be tired, so I won't wake him. But then again, it's past ten, so there'll be no food left. And those eggs were good.

"Hey, get up, man!" I'd like to go over and shake him or something, but John can get a little... irritable if you wake him up. Also, I have terrible impulse control.

"Fuggoff."

"That isn't even a word. C'mon, get up. It's nearly afternoon!" I edge closer, but cautiously. You can never tell, with him.

"Bite me."

I prod his shoulder warily. When he doesn't grab my arm –_when_ _I don't grab him_- I try it again, harder. Finally, he opens his eyes, glaring. "Sleeping like that can't be comfortable. Let's go eat or something," I suggest helpfully.

"What, are you going to make something?" If you weren't watching closely, you'd miss the laughter in his eye as he says this.

"Well, if you find charred remains edible, I'm your man!"

He laughs, then looks down at the blanket he's cocooned himself in with confusion. "This wasn't here when I fell asleep, was it?"

Evasively, I declare my hunger again and leave the room. He looked cold, and I have no impulse control, especially when it comes to him. Shut up.

* * *

I know from experience that people are motivated more by eating than by being considerate. Also, I am terrible and completely random in my updating. Sorry.

Colvine.


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

**And Then There Were Two**

John/Pyro

Real helpful, she is. Oh, yeah, 'the feeling is mutual,' she says. Right after having a temper tantrum, 'trust me'. Bullshit it's mutual, he's practically running away from me. Hell, he's literally running away from me! Admittedly, this was after he had collided with me, and... leaned closer, then turned red and... ran for it... Oh, the idiot.

I really hate it when she's right. She gives you this, this look, like, 'oh, I'm so much smarter than you, and didn't I tell you this would happen!' and it's so infuriating. Now I'm gonna have to endure that look for friggin' weeks, because when she's right, she's right.

Shit, now what do I do?

* * *

Make food, for a start. Maybe there's something to be said for the whole, heart-through-stomach approach. He certainly looks hungry.

...Wow. That is hideous. I'm not really in the mood for eating anything, anymore.

* * *

This is a weird tradition. I mean, they want to avoid the stress of everyday life, so what do they do? A bunch of young mutants, X-Men in training, gather and play a marathon of hero movies. Great idea.

Of course, I've been asked (read 'ordered') to attend by Marie, and Bobby actually asked me, as well. So obviously I'm going. But under protest.

I turn up in the rec. room, and find that it has already started. There're a lot of kids right now, but I think its right before 'bedtime' (suckers) so they'll be leaving soon. Most of the kids are gathered on the central couch, with the teenagers on the floor or chairs hidden in the shadowy corners, and I expect I'm supposed to do the same until the kids go to bed, when there'll be a mad rush to get to the couch.

Screw that. I shoo a couple of kids off one end of the couch and take up residence. The two boys give me an irritated look, and then settle down on some pillows on the floor directly in between me and the screen. Brats. I'd be irritated, but it's not really a great movie. George Clooney just was not meant to be Batman.

About halfway through the movie (I was almost falling asleep) Bobby wanders in and looks for a seat. The girl sitting on my right shifts closer to her friends so he can sit, blushing and giggling to her friends. It seems like Bobby's got himself a fan club. I'm caught between laughing and growling possessively. Then I realize that I may be being a little bit ridiculous and jealous of a twelve year old moreover.

_I'm thirteen-and-a-half, moron!_

The voice seems to fast track itself to my head. That means that it must have come from the little girl. _God_, I think pointedly at her, _not another. Keep out of my head please, little girl_.

I look over and see her grinning at me from the other side of Bobby's chest. Then she sticks out her tongue. My eyes narrow, and I barely restrain myself from returning the favour. Man, why is it that this particular batch of kids seems to hate me so much? Usually, it's adults that dislike and mistrust me.

This movie would be a lot more bearable if I didn't already know how it was going to end. And if Bobby would stop shifting minutely closer to me, that would be nice too, although I expect it is a bit weird having the little girl making eyes at him. I'm getting entirely too... comfortable, with where we are now.

Just as the credits are rolling, Storm marches in and flicks on the lights. This draws a few protesting groans, as does her announcement, "Anyone under fifteen will be in bed in ten minutes, right children?" '_Night, little girl! _I think, and get a smile for my efforts. Finally, there is reluctant progress outwards and, just as I had predicted, a rush towards the couch. Then I grin smugly as Kitty ends up sitting on the floor, and wrap myself deeply into a blanket-nest. The lights go back out, and another movie starts up. It's some weird old movie about shadows and Mongols and stuff, but at least it's mostly distracting me from the fact that he's sitting next to me, leg pressed firmly against mine.

I do that for a while. I bounce between thinking about the movie (Oh, that looked painful.), and pointedly not thinking about him and how close he is (Is his hand getting closer to mine? Is mine getting closer to him?), and nervously glancing at him, then away. Once or twice I catch his eye, then both our faces heat up slightly, and we look away. I really hate this sudden bout of awkwardness between us.

We skipped the first and second Spiderman, going straight on to the third on the rather shaky grounds that "Dark-Spiderman Peter Parker is so much hotter than regular Peter Parker!" which nonetheless gained universal (if unspoken) agreement. Sometime during the movie, our hands finally meet, and we both freeze. The blanket that fastidiously separates me from the outside air mostly covers them, and I can't help but wonder why neither of us is jumping away or making awkward, hurried excuses.

His hands are dry, and mostly smooth, and cool.

My fingers twitch closer, a movement small enough to be involuntary if he freaks out. He doesn't, and his own hand moves slightly closer in response. Painfully slowly, our fingers intertwine themselves. All the while, I'm thinking that this is so stupid and sappy. I also resolutely avoid looking in his direction, vaguely suspecting that none of it is actually happening and that looking might spoil the illusion. During Superman (because really, what is Hero Night without Superman?), I slide ever so slightly closer.

Mostly everyone has left by the time The Hulk comes on, except for Marie and us. She gives me a suspiciously knowing look then goes to bed, leaving just him and me in the dark room. Neither of us have bothered to pay attention to the movie for a while now.

His eyelids appear to be drooping, and his head falls onto my shoulder. That shakes away any last trace of sleepiness I had retained. I stiffen for a minute, before relaxing and shuffling closer so his neck isn't at such an awkward angle. He murmurs his sleepy thanks and I smile almost fondly at him. The last movie ends with no body to get up and start a new one so the screen goes blank, casting the room into a soft, almost-darkness.

I should probably get up and go to my room; I get the vague feeling that tomorrow morning I'll regret it if I sleep here. Those all seem like hazy, distant troubles to my sleepy thoughts, so instead I let my head loll back slightly to rest on the back of the couch and fall gratefully into a blissful, quiet sleep.

* * *

I'd hate to be in his shoes tomorrow morning. Also, bonus points for guessing the name of the second movie that they watched. Finally, owning anything mentioned in this fic (other than the opinion that Dark-Spidey was so hot) is nothing but a pipe dream, a cruel illusion, a... You get the idea.

Colvine


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

**And Then There Were Two**

John/Pyro

_/Wake up!/_

_What? I don't even remember falling asleep!_

_/Well, duh, idiot-face. But you should get up now, or at least move before your friends get up./_

_Uh, right. Thanks. Also, that's a stupid insult._ I finally open my eyes, groaning quietly as the faint light filtering in through the window hits them. Looking around I see little-telepath-girl sticking her head around the corner and giggling at me. This time I really do stick my tongue out, too peaceful to make the effort to do anything else. Then I stop, slightly horrified, and take in exactly how I was, until recently, sleeping.

I've still got his fingers tangled up with mine. I can't really feel them, actually. The stupid blanket thief stole mine, so now we're both covered and sort of... curled inward, and kinda... close. Really close.

I wish we weren't on the rec room sofa so much right now. I guess I should move. Or, wake him up, or something.

Yeah, that'd be a good idea. But, how? I try to reach out and shake him, but obviously not hard enough, because all he does is shift a bit closer and smile faintly. I think my face is turning red. I'm not sure. "Hey," I say quietly, almost a whisper. Nothing, and now I'm definitely getting redder. "Hey, idiot, get up," still in that strange, almost-whisper. Nothing still. Louder, "Wake up," and his eyes slide open, and with torturous slowness, meet my own.

Then I can't say anything for a minute, because I can't really think anything for a minute –_Blue, deepblueendless and I'mdrowning (pleasedon'tsaveme)-_. Then he looks down lazily, and I follow his half-lidded gaze to our mixed-up fingers. I'm turning redder, and I can't let go.

He's whispering, his voice still hoarse and raw from sleep, and it feels almost like a secret, meant just for me. "John, I can't feel my hand." Then he smiles a tiny, secret smile at me, and the corners of my mouth twitch upwards in reply. I feel childish and giddy and uncertain, and high beyond belief. Slowly, we untangle our hands (I'm surreptitiously rubbing the blood back into mine), and shift around, until we're sitting somewhat normally. I'm still smiling foolishly into space. He's looking at me, and smiling that mystifying smile, and I wonder idly what he's thinking, and whether he'll freak out once we're both fully awake and in possession of all our faculties. I wonder if I will.

Maybe I'm just crazy.

* * *

"So, classes start on Tuesday. That's in... two days, right?" This is the second time he's had to ask, because the first time his voice still had that weird sleepy undertone that manages to both make me shiver and feel too warm, and do anything but listen to the actual words.

"No, man. That's tomorrow. I think we should move before the girls, or worse, Warren turns up, though." I get up as he nods agreeably, drifting off again. I nudge him. "Hey. If you're gonna sleep, at least do it in a bed or something."

He gives me a muffled grumble of, "Spoilsport," and then extends a hand expectantly.

I give him a slightly pzzled look. "What?"

"M'tired. Can't feel my leg. Help me up." I laugh at him and take the proffered hand, noting ruefully that now he's making me shiver with his chilly skin, too. "Fatass," I mutter almost cheerfully as I help him up. Our hands linger a little too long afterwards to be accidental, and I feel another ridiculous, pointless grin coming on. I try to beat it down, viciously. Then it escapes anyways.

"What the hell time is it, anyways?" I wonder irritably, to cover my irrepressible smile. Then, sheepishly, I look over at the clock on the wall not two feet from where I'm sitting. "Seven. Seven-o-freaking-clock in the morning, on the last day before we start school! Telepath girl is cruel."

"What?"

"Remember the girl sitting next to you last night?" He grins, so I continue, "Yeah, a member of what seems to be your own little fan club. Well, she's been talking to me, mentally, last night and this morning. She woke me up this morning."

"Oh, but she's my fan girl?" I look at him sharply, denial on the tip of my tongue, and catch the laughter in his eyes. "You, my friend, have an admirer."

"Yeah right. She was teasing me, that's all. And waking me up at unearthly hours of the morning." Maybe I'm exaggerating a little, but I don't like being woken up. Especially early.

"You're crazy John." We're walking back to the room as we talk, and every once in a while, we'll bump shoulders playfully. I feel like a twelve year old, and it's kind of fun, this time around.

I almost walk past the door, laughing at some stupid joke of his, then walk in and pretend like that's exactly how I had planned it. He collapses, bonelessly, onto his bed, managing to make even that simple movement appealing and fluid. What a lazy slug he is. I grab headphones and a book, and proceed to block out everything around me. Terribly anti-social, I know. It's just something I need to do sometimes. It keeps me sane.

...Well. Mostly, kind of, sane-ish. If you squint.

/\/\/\

I've never realized how damn puppy-like he is, sometimes. If you aren't paying attention to him now, you will be soon, if he has to piss on the proverbial rug to make it that way. I almost like him better when he's sleeping. "Hey... What're you readin'? Is it good? What're you listening to?" and so on. I finally sigh and capitulate. "It's called_ Men at Arms_, see, on the cover there? And right now? Green Day."

"Oh. What's th-" he begins another string of questions, but I cut him off quickly. "Bobby, your fan girls miss you." He chuckles at that, then mock-pouts at me, pretending to walk out in a huff. "Fine. I know when I'm not wanted." Then he ruins it by sticking out his tongue as he leaves. I can't help but laugh at him.

'Not wanted' my ass.

/\/\/\

I seem to have a thing for writing him this week. Whatever. Does anyone know the author of the book I mentioned? I'm just wondering because, like, none of my friends read them, and I'm disappointed.

Colvine


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

**And Then There Were Two**

Bobby/Iceman

I look around furtively. Can he see me? Can anyone see me? No. Good.

Commence panic attack mode.

Holy shit.

That was refreshing. So now, beyond any hope of a miscommunication, there is no doubt. None at all. I like him? Check. He likes me? Seems that way, doesn't it? Check.

Holy shit.

Aaaaand, I'm still in panic attack mode. Damn.

...Are there eyes in the wall?

Wow, you know you're beyond all help when that thought doesn't freak you out. "Kitty, why do you do that? It's really weird!" She just grins impishly at me and disappears. I'm staring at the wall in mild irritation when she comes up behind me and pokes the small of my back. "What's got you looking so down?"

"I... ah, nothing. It's not important," I mutter uneasily. I hadn't realized I was so easy to read.

"Well it's obviously something. And just for the record, you're a crap liar." And there's the unflinchingly honest (read; blunt instrument) quality of hers that I so love. "Really, there's nothing. I swear." I hold my hands up, palms out, for emphasis, but to no avail. "Tell meeeee!"

"Bored, are you?"

She mock-glares at me, "Yes, but that's not the point. I'm... I'm being a kind and considerate person."

I can't help but laugh at that. "No, you're being nosy." She makes a noise of indignant protest, so I continue, "Honestly, I'm just... confused, that's all."

"Good. Then you can come with me." Her logic (or, really, lack of it) kind of confuses me, and I ask her, "What? When did this happen? Hell, come with you where?"

"The mall, obviously. The girls are being jerks, all 'I don't wanna carry your bags around again,' and stuff, so you get to come with me instead!" She's looking at me expectantly, like I should be honoured by this. "Uh, thanks for the offer but I have... something to do. Y'know, the thing, that I have to do now, which isn't shopping. That... thing." Real convincing, that was. Good effort Bobby.

* * *

I'm not at all surprised to find myself here, but I am a little annoyed. Just a little. "Why are we still here?"

"Well, I still need to get my school... stuff."

"What other 'stuff' could you possibly need?" She flashes me an innocent look, replying, "Oh, just some stuff, you know..."

"No way, I'm going home." She reluctantly cooperates, even going so far as to take one of her bags from me as we go. We've made it all the way to the car (there is a little guy on my shoulder going 'Yes! I can drive!' still, every time) before she starts talking again. "So, are you going to tell me what's up now?"

"I, uh, I...Nothing!" Again with the ever-so-convincing acting skills. I should get an Oscar or something, if I keep up with performances like those. "Right. Whatever."

A pause. I'm holding out for silence, but no, she's ruined it. "Liar."

"Augh! You are the nosiest, most shameless snoop in the whole world!" Smiling mystifyingly, she says, "Oh." Like that little outburst of mine explains everything. "What 'oh'?"

"Girl troubles, isn't it?"

"Er, yeah, something like that." I just have to laugh now, because we will all be murdered, viciously, if this conversation ever makes it back to the source of my 'girl' troubles. She pumps the air with her fist, exclaiming, "Yeah, I am good! I'm like, a master of... of psychology or something!"

Sometimes, I really wonder what that girl is smoking. The rest of the time, I wonder where I can get some of my own, but honestly, wow. She's nuts.

* * *

Gah.

I am so bored. It is a sad day indeed when I'm actually waiting for school to start again. It's going to be so... weird. They won't be there, any of them.

During the summer, I could almost pretend like they're all off on vacation, that they'll be back soon. I could carefully avoid the... their graves. If I was really careful, I could go through an entire day without doing any of the things that remind me that they're gone. I avoided the kitchen, where she won't be there determinedly following a doomed recipe to its completion; I stayed away from the basketball court and the garage, where he won't be playing or fixing something or jealously guarding the motorcycle from Logan; I could even wander around the halls and past the Professor's office, and ignore the silence in my head that wasn't there before.

I could pretend that they're coming back.

Not anymore, I guess.

I need to do something, and fast. The angst must be, like, breeding inside my head. Ew.

Ha ha. I can just imagine little weird angst bunnies doing their little angst-bunny thing.

... Oh wow, there must be some kind of fumes in here.

* * *

Exams really bite. Now I have summer vacation though, so all is right with the world. I just re-read that last little bit that I wrote, and I think that maybe there are fumes escaping here. Whatever.

Colvine


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

**And Then There Were Two**

John/Pyro

Wow, a whole three-day break, how generous of her, and then it's school again. That's just great.

I kind of miss the Professor's class, where I could be lazy, sarcastic, and even downright cynical and still pass with flying colours. I especially miss it now, sitting in this nasty, stifling lab room with that teacher who is really starting to unnerve me. She isn't... right. I don't know what that means, or even whether it means anything at all. It's still freaking me out.

I'm on the verge of zoning out completely when I notice my desk appears to be getting a little colder. No, scratch that, a lot colder. I look down and notice ice crystals slowly advancing across the top of the lab bench, in what looks like random patterns. I peer a little closer, and notice a tiny design which, as I follow its progression, melts almost seamlessly into another tiny little picture, like my own personal stained glass window.

Three guesses who these are from.

I can see his hand, draped across the back of his chair to 'accidentally' rest on my desk, and I can just imagine the expression of absolute concentration on his face. It's probably difficult to do something like that without watching it. He's covered most of my desk now, considerately leaving me some space to keep on writing the note, like he should be doing. I'm very careful as I write not to stray too close to the designs, because it would be a shame to accidentally melt them.

Another thing that would be a shame, I think idly, would be to let such a gesture go unreciprocated. I've thoroughly lost the train of thought behind this note and I never really cared about it to begin with, so what have I got to lose?

I turn the page over and sketch a few pictures and then pick one, with what could only be described as an evil smile.

As quietly as I can manage, I flick open the lighter. The teacher's eyes dart over to me, and I could swear I catch an amused, mocking glint in her eye before she looks away again. Disregarding her, I get to work burning a picture into the corner of his desk, very, very carefully.

At one point, he loses a pencil to the flame but all in all, I consider the operation a success, especially when he bends forwards slightly to inspect the finished work; a stylized heart made up of intertwining flames and shards of ice. The back of his neck turns a very satisfying bright red, and I can only imagine the matching flush settling across the front of his face. It's likely to have improved as Marie leans over curiously to see what's happening, and then has to begin coughing to cover up her laughter.

I win.

* * *

"That was a dirty trick." He catches up to me at the end of the day, to inform me of my unfair tactics. He sounds irritated but his eyes are smiling.

"It worked, didn't it?"

"Well, yeah, but... but she saw it!"

"And you imagine she didn't already know? That girl," I raise my voice so she can hear me, "is a lot smarter than she acts. Which, admittedly, isn't that hard, because pond scum is smarter than she acts." This earns me an eraser to the back of the head. "Hey!" She throws hard.

As I rub the back of my head, sulking, he continues, "Okay fine, but someone else might see it, and who could it be other than us?"

"And so what? Whatever we are is none of their business!" I narrow my eyes, glaring. He smiles wearily, "Alright." A short silence. "How did you come up with the picture? It was... It was really... uhm"

I ask, teasingly, "Feeling articulate are you? It was just a sketch. My grade school art teacher said I had," I introduce air quotes and a (slightly exaggerated) imitation of her high-pitch, trilling squeak, "'a gift', and 'it would be an absolute travesty to waste it!' and so on. But she was weird."

"Hah! So you're like an idiot savant or something."

"Did... you just call me an idiot?"

"No, I called you an idiot with genius-like tendencies!" I can tell he knows me too well, because he ducks exactly when I made a swipe for his head, and then grins at me like an idiot. We start walking outside and as we go, I look at him sidelong and decide it's time for a different tactic.

Trying very hard to look and sound completely serious, I ask him, "So you didn't like it then?"

"Er... No! I mean, yes! I didn't say-" at this point I burst out laughing, and have to grab the nearest wall for support. He walks a few more steps before looking back, slightly bewildered. I don't think I've seen him this flustered for years, since we were both smaller and nervous. Almost doubled over and holding my stomach, I look up at him and explain. "I couldn't help myself. I'm just drunk with the power here. You're stumbling over words, and turning red, you're completely off-balance. You're never like that!" The unspoken subtext: I think it's too damn cute that you get this way because of me.

A look of comprehension passes over his face, followed closely by a smile that makes me a little bit nervous. I stand straight, and he steps a little closer.

"Off-balance, huh? I can do that." I look around. We're by the side of the building, and there's no one else in sight. When my gaze returns to him, there is much less space between us. All of a sudden, he's way too close and not nearly close enough, and damnit, I'm still shorter.

I take a step back, suddenly feeling a lot less in control of what's happening and needing some distance to think clearly again, and hit my back against the wall. He smiles, and steps forward, and I can see him and I can smell him –_cologne, that gum of his, and something almost like smell of the air, the morning after it has snowed-_ and I can't think clearly and I don't think I can breathe, either. None of that bothers me, though, because his face is coming closer to mine with the unstoppable slow progression of glacial ice, his lips finally stopping- on my cheek?

My brow wrinkles and I make a noise of petulant displeasure that will mortify me when I'm once again in possession of my mental faculties. He smiles serenely, as if he doesn't understand my irritation and then starts moving again, ever so slowly. I don't have the patience or restraint to play that game though. Instead, I put my hand on the side of his face and bring our lips together, urgently and clumsily, myself.

I can feel cool skin under my hand and warm lips just barely moving against my own, and I think he's a walking contradiction. He seemed so confident and in control a minute ago, and now he feels just as nervous and uncertain and lightheaded as I am.

We part, and I'm left standing there, my hand on his cheek, his on my shoulders, a hair's width apart and breathing shallowly.

He smiles hesitantly, asks, "So, are you flustered yet?"

Catching my breath, I say, as nonchalant as I can manage, "Nah. Maybe we should try it again though, just in case."

* * *

I was a little nervous about this particular scene, so it took a lot longer than I wanted it to. This is a first for me, the whole kissing thing, so I'd love to hear what you think. Was it good? Bad? Ugly? Let me know. Also, the picture he etched into the desk? I imagine it as a much prettier version of the picture I have on my author page.

Colvine


	18. Chapter 18

Disclaimer: I own nothing

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

**And Then There Were Two**

Bobby/Iceman

We never did. Try again, that is. I was thinking about it and he obviously was, too, but just as he starts leaning in, a drop of rain hits me square in the forehead, and I decide that it's time to make for some place that offers more shelter than the little ledge two stories above us. Deciding on a huge, solid looking oak a little ways away, I walk towards it and then stop as I notice the lack of a second pair of footsteps.

Standing under the tree myself, I turn and look back. He's standing in the open with his arms slightly out to the sides and his head thrown back, eyes shut and mouth just barely open, as the rain starts to fall in earnest. I watch him for a minute, wondering, then jump slightly at the crack of thunder. Absently, I think there was no thunderstorm in the forecast today, although I can't recall how the sky looked when we came outside, being a little preoccupied. Maybe it's Storm's handiwork.

A flash of lightning lights up the sky, stark and brilliant. When I look back at John, his eyes are open, shining a cold, golden-brown with the remnants of the lightning.

Unconsciously, I step closer, staring, almost captivated. The lightning has long since faded but I could swear that there is still a light, glowing wild, red-hot and brilliant in his eyes, that has nothing to do with lightning and everything to do with him. The seriousness of my thoughts worry me a little, and I close my eyes for a minute, leaning back against the nice, sturdy tree behind me.

Then I open them again and go out to fetch the idiot in from the rain, grabbing his arm and tugging him insistently under the tree. Through sopping wet bangs, he gives me a sheepish grin, and I shake my head with a vague sense of incredulous amazement.

Looking out at the sky, I mutter, "This looks like it'll go on for a while." Glancing around again, I take in the emptiness of the grounds and the rather forbidding outline of the school against the dark sky and then smile faintly. "Might as well get comfortable," I decide, then settle down between two protruding roots and shift around until I find an acceptable position.

Eventually, the thunder dies down, and it's just the gentle tapping of falling raindrops. At some point, John sits down as well. I look over, he smiles at me, and the perfectness of the moment hits me like a freight train.

I feel so content, so peaceful and so inexplicably idyllic that I want to bottle this time and this place up and make them go on forever. But I know very well that it won't last, that it can't last, and something about the feeling of perfection mixed with the knowledge of an inevitable ending just aches. Sighing, I lean over into his shoulder and shut my eyes. I think that maybe he feels something like it, too, because I can hear him echo my sigh, quietly.

/\/\/\

The rest of the week passes uneventfully, until we reach Thursday afternoon. I've been looking forward to today for weeks, because I get to help teach one of the practical classes. It's sort of like Phys. Ed, except it involves the Danger Room.

This time is just an excuse for them to go in there and let loose, so that we can see what they can do. Later we'll get to do things like throw them up against that big robot, and see their reactions, show them how to work in groups and use their abilities to the greatest effect.

The problem with all of this, of course, is that everyone seems to learn things in a different way, or have no conscious control over what we do. I've always been a visual learner, so I see what I want happening in my mind's eye and then... well, I don't really have words for it, but things happen, usually in the way I see them happening. It's become mostly second nature to me now, so I don't have to concentrate as hard as I used to. The turning into ice trick was another matter entirely. I didn't see that so much as I felt a low hum, a sort of energy or vibration that I usually sense all around me, and sort of, gathered it all inward. I can only assume that the energy I felt was my power or something.

A while ago, I listened to Jean trying to explain to one of her classes what her powers felt like, when she hurled things around like a poltergeist on crack, and it sounded nothing like what I feel. It was a class of fifteen, and it looked like maybe one of them understood what she meant. It might be that the mutations wire our brains a little bit differently each time, or it may just be the limitations of our language revealing themselves. I think it's the second one, because really, who could have anticipate the need for a word to describe the feeling of directing the winds or the sensation of walking through another person. It would be like trying to describe the sound that green makes, or the taste of an alarm bell.

Actually, I think there is one kid whose senses are all mixed up like that... Whatever. The point is that it's difficult to explain to someone how to gain conscious control or achieve certain effects. Nearly impossible, in some cases.

Still, it's a lot of fun.

/\/\/\

After the lesson (and I'm still picking scales off my skin, because somebody started shedding) I find Marie curled up into on of the larger chairs, looking morose and staring at her hands. "Marie?" She starts, and then looks up at me guiltily. "If you hate it that much, why not just go in for another shot?"

She looks even more bewildered now, possibly confused by the fact that I do have some degree of empathy and understanding. "I... I can't. The dose that they used in the guns was much higher, of course, and there hasn't been anything about the people who were shot regaining their power, but apparently, there have been other... side effects. Nobody knows if it's safe to give us another dose yet. The government is trying its best to hush up any talk about the side effects, of course, because it would have mutants, and some rights groups too, up in arms."

"That makes sense, I guess. But, if it's being kept quiet, how did you find out?"

"Well, I asked some lady at one of the clinics, and she just said no, and that she couldn't tell me why or anything. I came back here, and apparently I was trailing the proverbial thunder cloud," which would explain the foul mood. I thought it was a time of the month thing, although I'll keep that to myself, because she always gets irritated when I say that. "Anyway, Storm asked me what was wrong, so I told her and then she got this kind of angry look, and walked off really fast. Apparently to talk to Hank about this, and so now we know, but he asked us not to make a big deal about it, and she listened, which is weird, come to think of it." She finally breathes and then hesitates, like there's something she wants to say, but isn't sure if she should. "I... thought you were angry, or at least didn't understand. When I got the cure, I mean."

It's phrased like a statement, but it sounds like a question. I have to be careful what I say, I think, because it's important to her, and I don't want to upset her more than she already is, no matter how well she hides it. "Well, I didn't understand, no. I didn't get it, and I doubt I ever will, because being a mutant might not always be convenient or helpful, but it's... part of who I am. On the other hand, you might not see it that way, and I don't need to understand, because it isn't my decision to make, in the end. It's yours, and I don't have much right to be angry about it, either, because it's not hurting anyone and it seemed to make you happy.

You worried me, for a while, because I thought that you'd done it just to make me happy, and the last thing I wanted was for you to become less... less you." I smile at her uncertainly. "If that made any sense at all."

She gives me a broad, relieved smile then gets up to hug me, very, very carefully. She sighs heavily, and detaches herself and says, in an almost whisper, "Thanks."

I still don't get her.

/\/\/\

I... don't really have much to say about this chapter. I was reading over the first few chapters, and I was just a little bit appalled at the grammar mistakes and some of the writing. So, I might be going back to tweak some things, thought there won't be any major changes or anything. I only started writing stories and things a little while before I started this particular story, and I'm frankly amazed at the extent to which my writing and style have changed. Hooray!

Colvine.


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

**And Then There Were Two**

Rogue/Marie

I can feel him. I don't know what the word is for this, or if there even is a word, but I can feel something, something that is obviously Bobby. It lies just under his skin, and drifts complacently in the air around him. It's mostly cool and blue, with hints of a warmer, golden colour. It's soft and cold and comforting and it smells just like he does, except I can't actually see it or smell it or feel it. Does that make any sense?

It does to me, I guess. It has to.

He returns the hug, and suddenly I, or my own... energy is straining outward, trying so hard to reach him, to consume whatever it is that I can feel of him. It scares me every time, and I don't know how to stop it. I've tried hard, so hard, but I'm terrified of trying to test it. What if I were wrong and it devours someone, just because I thought that maybe I had it under control? I can't do it.

I can feel it (me?) straining, trying to push through what must seem like the rather paltry defense of a layer or two of fabric. I breath in, once, trying to capture one last lungful of the... the something (Hah. Essence of Bobby, perhaps?), then break away with a sigh.

I just have to do something about this.

* * *

I feel like I should have gone off and done something extraordinary or dramatic, after a statement like that. Actually, I just went to the internet. When in doubt, after all. I read some stuff about controlling your body, and its reactions. Most of it was, of course, crap, but you have to expect that.

Some of the meditation things are less phony sounding than the rest, so I save a few for future reference.

Suddenly feeling far too tired and worn out, I shut my eyes, bring my hands up to my head, and sigh. I've been doing that quite often, recently. Maybe it's something to do with the strange collection of memories, personalities and feelings I have in my mind, lying about like so much junk in a garage sale. They whirl through my head like hurricane winds, and if I don't watch myself, I feel bits of them coming up to the surface. It's usually benign, like the urge for a cigar that could only be Logan, or Bobby's weird grin. Sometimes, though, they scare me. I really don't like to be around people when it's a Magneto day.

I read over the instructions on screen once more before turning it off and sitting back, trying to get comfortable. I'm grateful that I'm not expected to sit in one of those strange positions, because I'm not very flexible and I might get stuck. How stupid that would look. Hands falling to my lap, I shut my eyes and try concentrate on breathing, and nothing else.

My concentration lasts for all of five seconds. It sounded do easy in writing, but thinking about one thing only is really hard.

Before I try again, though, I grab a pen and paper, and scribble a quick message to Kitty, telling her not to disturb me. It's not likely to help, because she's the kind of person who, faced with a button and a sign that proclaims in bold letters and many languages, "Pushing this will result in the end of mankind, and the world as you know it!" would push the button just to see what happens. Then I shut my eyes, drop my hands and try again.

* * *

This may be working. I try to squash optimism, because it usually just hurts me in the end, but this may actually be working!

I mean, it's been maybe three weeks, and I've managed to get my concentration to last for about five minutes on a good day. I suppose it's the next part that is going to be difficult. I want the insatiable vacuum that is my power to stop pulling the life out of people's bodies. I don't know if that means I should try to pull it inwards, focus it on something else, or maybe just push it out altogether. I don't even know if I will be able to survive without it constantly stealing the energy of others for me. But I'm still going to try, because I think that maybe, I'm the kind of person who would push the, end-of-the-world button, too.

I sit, and I breathe. Gradually, I try to substitute my awareness of my surroundings with an awareness of myself. It kind of works, and I think that maybe half of the trick of doing something difficult is just finding convenient lies, and telling them to yourself until you just about believe them, and follow along. I can feel my own ravenous, predatory energy, the same way I felt his, and feel other people. I can feel it reaching out greedily, looking for something, anything to consume, searching to fill itself. It's a deep, empty black, and I wonder if this is who I am, the way that Bobby's is very much him. I hope not, and search harder, almost desperately.

Then I find it. If I thought it was hard to find words to describe how other people feel, I was wrong. What's difficult is finding words for this. It's lying buried underneath the hungry emptiness, and it feels... familiar. It feels a little bit like I imagine it would to see your own reflection for the first time, except so much more deeply personal.

Finally, I have to shake my head. This isn't what I want to fix. I turn my attention to the void again, looking at it from different angles, wondering how in hell I thought I could control this... this thing. Focusing on just my hand is a good place to start, I think. I try to nudge the void, assuming that it is my power, directing it towards the pencil I left on the desk for this purpose, and I wait. Nothing seems to be happening.

I feel defeated, almost crushingly so. I expected, in my heart of hearts, that this would somehow be easy, once I started. It isn't.

Pushing the disappointment aside, I try instead to push it out of myself. This idea had scared me, because the void is, after all, part of me. But I needn't have worried, because it is having none of it. It refuses to separate itself from the rest of me, and I definitely won't try to disconnect that; I think I would probably die if I did that. I wait a while, trying to regain my concentration. Then I try the thing that I had left for last.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, I jerk the void surrounding my right hand sharply inward. For a moment, it appears to have worked. There is nothing there but the familiar energy, and I feel the beginnings of elation coming on. Then I gasp, biting down on a scream, as I feel it consuming the... me-energy. I hurl the void out in a panic, cradling my hand desperately to my chest. It aches, like I've been hitting it, hard, for hours.

I just sit there for a while. I start shivering and then stop, forcing myself to think about it, hoping desperately to find something, anything that might help me. Trying hard to breathe evenly, I look for my energy and my void.

Oh hell, and now I've started calling it mine.

On closer inspection, the only thing I notice is that they aren't just layered, one atop the other, they're actually intertwining. An idea presents itself and, without giving myself anytime to consider it rationally, I enact it.

I push them together, mixing until the energy and the void are indistinguishable.

They try to escape, and succeed almost immediately, not appearing to like each other's presence. But for the second that I held them together, I couldn't feel the hunger, nor the grasping predatory energy.

It worked.

I think. I can't hold them together, though. One or the other will probably always escape my grasp, and I don't know how long it will be before I can extend my control over any significant area of my body. But maybe, someday, I'll be able to do this. And I think that that's enough, for now.

I'm so happy that I could... I could scream or sing, or run like a madwoman. I need to do something, or I might explode.

Eventually, I settle for cutting my hair short. I'm not sure whether it's the haircut or something else, but I feel a lot lighter.

* * *

I'm pretty sure that if something like that were all it took to get her power under her control, then the Professor or someone would have thought of it already, but whatever. They were busy with the whole, murderous maniacs thing. Also, I felt sorry for her, because I was writing her rather a depressing role in the story (later). This doesn't really have a purpose, plot-wise, but I think I like it anyways. Eh, whatever. Enjoy.

Colvine


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

**A.N. **– The perceptive amongst you might have noticed a significant time gap, of about three weeks, occurring during the last chapter. Not much significant happened during that time; life as usual, one might say. Just letting you know. And now, on with the story!

**And Then There Were Two**

John/Pyro

Four weeks down, sixteen to go. This is nothing, though. The real question, I guess, is what I could possibly do next. It's strange, really, that the thought of the future inspires more fear in me than the prospect of fighting. Fighting alongside people that I couldn't trust, barely feel safe around, against people who a corner of my heart wished I could be with again.

I'm getting melancholy again, and I need to stop. Thinking about it isn't going to change anything. Life is good, for now. It might not have been great before, it might not be great in the future, but right now, I'm happy. That should be enough. I want it to be enough.

"John." That, of course, is Bobby, in determined, pay-attention-to-me-now mode. I'm sitting on my bed, reading. He's on the bed beside me with his back to me, his head falling back onto my shoulder, eyes shut.

"Mm," I reply, trying very hard to ignore him. I'm grateful to him for interrupting my internal self-recrimination-fest, but he doesn't need to know that

"John?" He is persistent. I don't even answer this time. I note, absently, him shifting his head before I turn the page. Then I feel his lips on my neck and freeze for a moment, before determinedly re-directing my attention to the book.

He kisses a little bit lower and I read the same sentence four times over, trying to remember to breathe. It might be something about the warm mouth and the cold nose following it, but he is getting downright impossible to ignore. Then again, that is probably what he's aiming for, and I can practically see the playful half grin on his face.

In fact, I think I can actually feel him grinning too, on my neck. But I refuse to let him win. So I stare at the first sentence on the page, turn steadily redder, and pretend to ignore him.

He trails his tongue along my collarbone and up the side of my neck.

I think I might have growled, just as he did that. I drop my book and pull his face up to mine. I notice distractedly that he is grinning exactly the way I had pictured it, except perhaps a little bit more smugly vindicated. I kiss him, fiercely and a bit desperately, and then pull away. Breathing hard, I finally ask him, "What?" He answers me with a slightly dazed and utterly brilliant smile, "I was bored." I could pull my hair out. If it were anyone else, I would have punched them. Since it's him, I just sigh and mutter, "Of course you were," and re-open my book. And if my arm is around his shoulder or my head is resting against his, well, so what? Bite me.

/\/\/\

"Mr. Allerdyce."

It's Ms. Clayton, the new teacher, although I guess she isn't new any more. She still unnerves me, despite the fact that I have absolutely no reason to feel this way. Strangely, that bothers me as much as having a reason to mistrust her might. "Yeah?"

"Stay after class for a moment, would you? The rest of you are dismissed." The class slowly filters out, with Marie at the tail. She has a grin and a wave for me, and she looks a lot happier lately. I'm glad, I think, although it would be nice to know why. I'm just nosy, I guess.

She also, unfortunately, closed the door as she left, which does nothing for my peace of mind. Sounding a little more nervous than I'd like, I ask, "So, why'd you ask me to wait?"

She's sitting behind the desk, hands folded in front of her and wearing a smile that sets off alarm bells in my head. "Oh, I'd just like to talk." My eyes narrow and I unconsciously take a step back, suspiciously answering, "Right. Well, I'm not really in the mood, so maybe some other time-" I turn, intending to head for the door.

"Your... friend," and the accompanying smile says something entirely, "Mr. Drake. I was under the impression that he was part of the reason for your earlier, ah, departure." My head whips around and I stare at her. She couldn't possibly know about that. "I'm happy to see that you appear to have resolved your conflicts." She couldn't know about that, because the only one who would know about that would be... Oh, shit.

She's still talking and I think I hear a tapping or something, although I barely take notice past the blood I can hear pounding in my ears. I reach as inconspicuously as I can for my lighter. "It shall make this so much easier."

The next few seconds seem to pass in slow motion. I pull the lighter out, flip it open and light it in a single motion, reveling for a too-short moment in the feeling of the flame near me. I take it into my hands to hurl it towards her, and suddenly she is standing in front of me, stabbing my arm with something. I have time to gasp and then I'm back in real-time, and my universe feels very small and empty.

I can see her mouth moving, but I can't make out the words past the strange rushing in my ears. The fire that I had been grasping confidently a moment ago is burning my hands, I think. I can't feel it. I can't feel much of anything, actually, except a bone-deep sort of cold emptiness.

I feel a different, familiar cold, and then everything is black.

/\/\/\

It's short, I know. I can't do protracted drama. I'm wondering how obvious (or not) my writing is, so I'll ask; who knows who the mystery-woman is? Cookies for a correct answer!

Colvine


	21. Chapter 21

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

**And Then There Were Two**

Bobby/Iceman

I lost! I never lose! ... Usually.

Of course, he hasn't admitted that we're playing, but I'm still keeping score. Thus far, I've won rounds two and three. One and four... those were flukes. I was off my game. We're tied right now, but I think it's time for round five, the tiebreaker.

Which is why I'm standing outside the classroom, wasting my valuable lunch hour I might add, so I can ambush John when Ms. Clayton lets him go. I wonder what he's done. I mean, he used to be in and out of teachers' offices so often he'd be on first name terms with them, but not recently. Either way, I'm waiting, and victory will be mine!

Five minutes later (alright, so I'm not exactly the picture of patience), I decide that this is taking too long, and knock on the door, trying to think of a plausible reason that I might have for knocking. No one answers, though I can hear faint voices through the solid oak door. I wait for a minute, and then knock again, more urgently. Something is making me uneasy, and I'd really like to know what's happening behind this door. I might look like an idiot for hammering on the door if she opens it and there's nothing wrong, but then again, I might be right.

No answer, so I push the door open, and find that I was right after all.

Ms. Clayton, with more speed than a teacher would ever need, starts moving towards John, sidestepping the desk gracefully. John, looking just as glued-to-the-floor as I think I must, pulls his hand from where it rests inside his pocket and light flares up inside his hands. Then something appears in her hands and she plunges it into his arm, and my insides seem to freeze. His expression turns shocked for a moment then seems to glaze over, and the room starts to smell of something burning, then he's falling.

Before I can think, I'm moving, and where Ms. Clayton used to stand smiling strangely, there is a prison box of ice a foot thick. I'm across the room and I've caught him, but awkwardly, so I sink to the floor. I see the fire, not cradled in his hands anymore but burning them. The significance of this doesn't register with me. My brain hasn't caught up with events yet, I guess. I cover his burning hands with my own chilled ones, and watch distractedly as the steam hisses upwards from the extinguished flames, then let go.

* * *

I can't really remember how we got to the infirmary. John wasn't conscious most of the time, which was a mercy I guess, considering the burns on his hands.

They were second-degree burns, and much less severe than they could have been. There'll be some scars and stuff, but Storm called this guy, Mr. Thorpe or Thorn or something, who can speed up the healing process. There's kind of a story behind this guy, actually. He used to me some kind of naturopathic doctor and he and his patients thought that his medicine was miraculously effective, but then he found out that he just had a mutation, and that freaked some people out. There was this one guy, he would have lost his leg to an infection without Mr. whatever's help, but he also had a thing about mutants. He burned Mr. whatsit's house down and the rest, as they say, is history, although it did give him something of an expertise regarding burns. Maybe that's why she called him.

I don't know why Storm is telling me all this. She must have seen me from her office, as I was half-pulling and half-carrying John down to the infirmary, and I guess my expression worried her, because she's been trying to keep me distracted. It's working so far. It helps that I really don't want to think about any of this.

Maybe if I don't, none of it will have actually happened. John wasn't actually stabbed with a cure dart by some dangerous psycho, nor did he nearly burn his hands off as a result. I certainly didn't entertain murderous thoughts, I'm not sitting with Storm next to an unconscious and feverish John, and everything will be fine if someone would just kindly pinch me.

Just then, there's an extremely welcome distraction; the doors slam open as if they've been kicked, by, perhaps, the heavily booted feet of Logan. He's 'escorting' Ms. Clayton, who looks strangely serene for a woman with a claw or three grazing her neck, none too gently. I feel my fists clench almost involuntarily, and I sit up straighter and slightly forward, eyes narrowed.

She meets my eyes, and then smiles knowingly at me, and I have to look away because I won't be able to control myself if she keeps looking at me like that. My eyes dart around, then light upon my own clasped hands, detachedly surprised to find them not flesh and bone but solid ice. I must be pretty angry, I think almost disinterestedly. I glance over at her again, and feel the cold spread upwards, over my arms. Yeah, I'm really damn angry. I try to push away both the advancing red-hot fury and the unnatural icy calm that accompanies the state change, because neither are making it any easier for me to think clearly.

Logan's acting weird. Well, weirder than usual, that is. Frankly, he looks like he's sniffing Ms. Clayton.

Suddenly, his grip on her arm gets a lot tighter and he growls, almost triumphantly, "Mystique! I knew you felt familiar. Not even bad perfume can cover that!" Her face creases into a vengeful smirk, and now that I'm comparing it to Mystique, the resemblance is almost painfully obvious. She speaks, and even the voice is similar, but it's missing something. "That's a relief. I was afraid that you'd never figure it out."

Storm raises herself from her seat, eyes narrowed dangerously. "What are you doing here? How did you get in?" She looks like she has a lot more questions, but she also wants answers, so she's slowing herself down.

"You know why I'm here. You can see exactly what the purpose of my little visit was," she says, gesturing with her free arm towards John before continuing, "and getting in was hardly difficult. Even as simple Homo sapiens, I have a few talents. Alexia Clayton was never a real person." Even with the knowledge that her background check was foiled with such apparent ease, I can see Storm visibly relaxing with the knowledge that Mystique's dangerous and versatile ability has stayed neutralized.

"Surely there is a bigger cause here than harming one of my students?" is the next question, Storm clearly expecting a larger, more sinister plan than a single act of malice.

While Mystique does reply, "No. Nothing else," it fails to reassure anyone, due to her mysterious, self-satisfied smile. The smile doesn't falter even as the door to her makeshift confinement closes behind her. I finally release my grip on my chair and try to coax the blood to return to my hands.

Logan breaks the repressive silence abruptly, "What do we do with her?" Storm's scowl deepens slightly, "I won't turn her over to the containment facility until we have no other choice. After turning a cure into a weapon and then refusing to face the music when it turned out to be dangerous, I have no trust for them and no idea what kind of fate we'd be turning her over to. Not even to an enemy will I do that."

"That's all very well and good, but we can't keep her locked in a wing of the infirmary forever either."

A deep, tired sigh. "I know." She walks out, presumably to wait for Mr. Thorpe/Thorn, and Logan begins to pace restlessly around the room, glancing over to the door that conceals Mystique from us. I settle into my chair beside John's bed and resign myself to a long wait.

* * *

If you're reading this then someone is still checking back here, and I'm glad that I have so many faithful readers. So, thank you! My internet was dead (and still is. This isn't my computer.), so I couldn't post anything. I got a bit crazy and went over the first few chapters with the proverbial red pen. If you'd like, you can read the new (and hopefully improved) versions, but it isn't necessary because I haven't changed any major events. Finally, there was a correct guess, before I'd even asked about Mystique, which was really cool.

Colvine


	22. Chapter 22

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

**And Then There Were Two**

Logan/Wolverine

I think that most of the strange expressions that people use are stupid. "I would give you the sun and the moon" for example. Stupid. "When pigs fly"? Stupid and ridiculous. But just now, I think I understand the one about cutting the tension in the air with a knife.

The air feels heavy with the frustration of Storm, Iceman and I. I can smell the fear and anger, rolling off him in waves, mixed with a look of desperate exhaustion.

Most disturbing of all is _her_. I don't know, Mystique or Raven or whatever you want to call her. She feels... broken.

No, that's not right. She feels like something broken and put back together, but missing pieces of itself.

This shouldn't bother me. I shouldn't even spare her a thought, but I can't seem to ignore it. The wrongness is lurking in the back of my mind, and it's itching away, like poison ivy.

"Kid," my voice rings out, too loud in the silent room, "get out of here." Bleary outrage shows in his eyes, but it's watered down by the fact that he was nodding off and can't seem to focus. "Look, go eat something, sleep, and for god's sake wash yourself. He," I nod brusquely towards the motionless form on the bed, "isn't going anywhere."

He hauls himself wearily out of the chair and wavers for a moment, looking as though he'll fall over. Finally, he walks out.

I sit, letting my head fall onto the back of the chair. My eyes drop shut for a moment then slide open again.

I stand and sit again. I bring my hands to my temples, rubbing distractedly before clenching them into fists. A low, frustrated growl rumbles through the back of my throat and I shoot to my feet. My eyes dart around the room as I pace agitatedly, fists clenching and unclenching.

My gaze settles on the door, behind which our prisoner, or guest waits. I look away, feeling irrational, disconcerted and restless.

It's going to be a long day.

* * *

The healer has come at last, and luckily, Drake is still off sleeping or something. Thorpe walks in, alternating between looking as twitchy and nervous as a startled rabbit, and gazing at Storm's back like a lonely stray dog- desperate for affection. Then he inspects the boy's hands, and for a moment, the steel in his nature shows through the nervous, ineffectual appearance. His eyes close, his brow furrows and his hands hover just above the burned skin.

Nothing glowed, or shone, or exploded, but Thorpe grows steadily paler as he stands there, and some colour returns to Pyro's skin. As I watch, the burned flesh seems almost to twitch and squirm under Thorpe's hands. Allerdyce's unconscious form suddenly stirs, mumbling quietly. As the flesh continues to move unnaturally, he becomes more agitated, twisting and groaning. Storm steps in to hold one of his shoulders, and I take the other. He feels warmer than he should.

Finally, Thorpe finishes and steps back with a sigh. "The burns will be fine in a day or two. I can fee-" he grabs blindly behind himself for support as he staggers, his face grey with exhaustion. Storm reaches out quickly and wraps her arm around his back, guiding him to a chair. I wipe the sweat surreptitiously off of my palms.

He slumps into the chair, shutting his eyes. "Are you alright?" she asks, her voice softer than usual.

Thorpe takes a deep breath, replies. "I'll be fine. They were rather severe burns, but I'll be fine and so shall he, eventually. But I can't do anything about... the other thing."

She sighs, looks from the boy back to Thorpe, and smiles unconvincingly. "I know. We couldn't have asked for anything more than you have done. Thank you, so much." His eyelids slide up wearily, and he looks at her. "Not at all. It was a privilege to be of use, and I wish only that the circumstances were better."

"Why don't I get you something to eat, you look dead tired," Storm offers, then looks at me and amends her offer. "Actually, you go ahead, I will catch up with you in just a moment." He trots off obediently, and she turns to look at me full on, head cocked inquisitively. "Was that what you meant, when you made that strange remark about corrupting things?"

"What?" I ask, attempting ignorance.

"You know what I'm talking about. The two of them," she replies impatiently. "You knew?"

"Yeah."

"How?" she asks, bewildered.

"I, uh, I notice people." This doesn't appear to alleviate her confusion. "What do you mean, you 'notice people'?"

"I notice the way people look at each other, and act around each other, and don't act around each other. It's something you pick up, I guess. It makes things pretty damn obvious." She stops, looking as though she's thinking about something. Then she sighs, "Right. Well, I should find Terry before someone tries to impress him, and accidentally implodes his head." I have to stifle a laugh. It only happened once, and it wasn't exactly permanent, but it _was_ pretty funny.

Terry?

Whatever, not my problem. I eye the clock: _2:47_.

I prop my feet up on the small coffee table next to me and fold my arms behind my head, settling in for a nap.

I'm trapped in the grip of muddled dreams of avenging angels, with red hair and endless eyes and wreaths of fire when the door knocks against the wall, startling me awake. I look up, and see Marie standing in the doorway. Her eyes flick from John to me for a second, then she is demanding, quietly, what happened, when it happened, and why she didn't know earlier.

"How did you find out at all?" I ask, almost afraid to hear the answer. "Bobby, of course." I groan. He can't seem to keep quiet, can he?

"He was wandering around like a zombie, so I asked him what was going on, and he just started talking. And he didn't shut up. I could barely tell what he was talking about, he was talking so fast, but he seemed to be saying someone had stabbed John. He looked like he was going to pass out, so I made him eat. I think he's sleeping now." All of this comes out in one breath, and I am too tired for speed talking teenagers right now. Surreptitiously, I check the time again: _3:13_. Another groan is bubbling to the surface as I look back to Marie, who has magically appeared by John's bedside.

She's looking at him, gloved hands gripping the side of the bed rather harder than necessary. Her eyes flutter shut and she reaches out, laying a hand on his arm. I take a step closer, cautiously, but she has stepped back suddenly, looking at him sadly. "It's... gone." Her eyes flash dangerously, and she begins to toy with the fingers of her gloves, looking like she wished dearly to pull them off and grab someone. "Who did this?" He's a strange person for her to feel protective of, but who am I to judge? I mean, I probably will anyways, but that's beside the point.

"Someone who claims to be Mystique," I reply, glancing unintentionally towards the door. Luckily, she misses it, choosing instead to interrogate me. "And? Is she?"

"Why're you asking me?"

"Come on, Logan, I know that you know."

"Fine. She is. Herself, I mean."

"I- Where is she?" she asks, looking around as if Mystique might still be lurking in a corner, cackling evilly. "Somewhere else," I reply shortly. You only get one free answer. She sighs, sensing approaching belligerence.

She looks over at John again. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Keep this to yourself for a while. And keep an eye on Drake." She scoffs humourlessly, muttering to herself, "As if I didn't already," and pulls up a chair. "Mind if I stay for a while?"

"Not really. Uh, actually, I've got to go, but Storm should be here soon." She looks mildly disappointed as I leave, but there is only so much sitting around I can take in one day.

* * *

I despair. My dad seems to think that we're better off without the internet, so I can barely ever get onto a proper computer to upload anything. So, whenever there is an update, expect multiple chapters. Fingers crossed that the internet fairy will visit and fix everything,

Colvine


	23. Chapter 23

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

**And Then There Were Two**

Bobby/Iceman

I'm drifting in that place you find, right between dreams and the waking world. It's warm, calm, and untroubled, for a little while. Then it fades away, and reality welcomes me back.

Well, welcomes is a generous word.

Part of me wants to curl up and go back to sleep, and hope that everything will be better when I wake up, but most of me wants to leap out of bed and charge down to the infirmary, with my crumpled, slept in clothes, to save the day. Not that I could, or anything. But the impulse is there.

I settle for a compromise of sorts. Logan was right about the food and the sleep, so he was probably right about my smelling, too. I shower, find some (relatively) clean clothes, and _then_ rush down to the infirmary like an idiot. I get there to see Marie in a chair in the corner, arms crossed, looking pensive. She's staring at John and looking dissatisfied with something. Then she notices me, and smiles feebly. "Trouble seems to follow him like a stray cat, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," I sit down, asking, "Have I missed anything important?"

"Not really. Some guy fixed his hands, and came back once to check on him a while ago. He says there isn't much else he can do to help, but that he'll stay for a while anyways."

"Oh. Thanks." I shift my attention back to John for a moment, before turning to look blankly at the wall. I feel like I should be doing something, even though I know there's nothing I can do.

Nothing moves for a while, then Marie shifts uncomfortably, makes an excuse and leaves quietly.

The only sound in the room is hushed breathing. I know that I don't need to be here – people are checking in regularly, and there are expensive machines all over the room, making my presence unnecessary at best. I just… hell, I don't know what I'm doing.

Everything moves slowly, most of the time, but my life seems to happen in the few minutes where time speeds up and leaves you behind. When I first discovered I was a mutant, well, that was a mess and happened very fast. The fight on the island? It felt like it was over before I could stop and think. Everything was just moving too fast for me, and all I could do was react to things as they came. And now this, done in the blink of an eye. I wonder if when I'm old, it'll have happened so fast that I won't even notice the years passing by.

I don't know why I care so much. An attraction, I could understand. The amount of trust though, that implies that I have a reason to find him trustworthy. And I don't, not really. I get misgivings about us, sometimes. Is this really a good idea? What do I know about him? Do I actually know him at all? I thought I did, but then it turned out I was wrong once, so why not a second time?

He stirs, and all the thoughts swirling about my head are brushed away like brittle, fallen leaves, blown away on the wind. Without thinking about how familiar a gesture it is, I reach over to push the hair from his eyes, noting absently that he needs a haircut. My fingers encounter a bump on his forehead, and I explore it curiously, wondering what it is. I look, and realize that it must be from when I head-butted him. I don't really know what to think about that.

I'm still unthinkingly tracing the scar when I realize his skin is far warmer than it should be, and his face is flushed. I look for a moment more, hoping he'll wake up, and then walk off to fetch Storm.

* * *

I hate feeling useless. I know there's nothing that I can realistically do to help, but my inactivity is still driving me crazy. Storm brought Mr. Thorpe with her, and some nurse, who I've never seen before turns up. A little later, Logan wanders in.

I wonder when exactly it is I will be allowed into the fabled realm of the adults, because they've just closed ranks against me. Lately, I've been on the inside of the conferences more often than on the outside, and I had forgotten how much it sucked, being out here while they confer.

"I think his body is trying to compensate," and I perk up, because Storm is finally explaining something to me. "I mean, his body temperature has been well above normal for years, and I expect something is trying to adjust."

"That… makes absolutely no sense to me."

"Yes, it was rather a weak theory. But why isn't particularly important right now. What we know is that he has a dangerously high temperature, very similar to what it would have been before…" She trails off. I interject suddenly with, "So, why is he still unconscious?"

She won't meet my eyes. That means bad news. "We… we don't know." I feel anger rising like bile from where it has been sitting, hot and dangerous, in the pit of my stomach. It travels up, up until it is choking me and I can barely speak. I manage, though.

"So we don't know why he's not waking up. We don't know why his body is doing this." I'm shamefully aware that it isn't her fault, and that there's nothing Storm could do to make anything any better. I don't care, and I really can't stop myself anymore. "We don't know why she stabbed him; we don't even know who she is! What _do_ we know?" I'm shouting, by now.

"Almost nothing," Storm tells me, quietly, gently. That tone of voice sends needles of guilt through my chest and I'm sure my remorse shows on my face, but she continues. "You have to understand, everything about us is new. Everything we do, everything we are, is new and generally inexplicable. We're trying, but it's an uphill battle all the way."

I rub my head, which hurts suddenly with the echoes of my shouting. "I know. I'm sorry, it's just…"

"Yes, well," she smiles ironically, "we are still very human, for all our advantages. There is one thing that you could do, which might ease your frustration. We need to keep his temperature down to within what is safe for him now." I sit up straighter and focus again at the possibility of being able to _do_ something finally, after all the sitting uselessly and twiddling my thumbs. She captures my attention again, continuing, "But it isn't as simple as making the room very cold and hoping for the best." I hide a grimace; that was exactly what I was about to do. She points to a monitor, "Watch that as you cool him down. Ideally, we're looking for 97 or 98. You can do this, right?"

"Of course I can." I'm reassuring myself as much as her, but no one else needs to know that. I check the monitor, to see how far we have to go.

It reads 104, which is almost high enough to be deadly, from what I remember of my brother's rather sickly childhood. He was always coming down with something or other: ear infections, colds, fevers and the occasional flu. The highest he ever went was 103, and my mom was nearly frantic.

I look around, and say as politely as I can manage, "It, um, it'll be getting kinda chilly in here. You might be more comfortable, uh, outside." They take the hint. Storm whispers good luck as she walks out, and Logan just looks at me.

I stand up, plant my hands on the table, and begin the painstakingly slow process of cooling the room to exactly the right heat.

* * *

My throat is dry and parched, and it feels like my skull shrunk a few sizes without consulting my brain beforehand. I'm exhausted and dizzy, and whenever I try to concentrate I go cross-eyed. My bones hurt, and I want nothing more than to curl up and sleep.

On the other hand, John has been hovering at 98 for the past hour, and the fever is mostly gone. I think I'm done. I relinquish my hold on the room's atmosphere, and the little deposits of ice that have formed all around me and him, thinking ruefully that someone is going to have to mop them all up when they eventually melt. Then I drag myself into an adjacent infirmary cot, too tired to move any further. Sprawling, boneless, I think indignantly that these beds are much more comfortable than the one in my room.

I shut my eyes, and sleep without dreaming.

I feel hands on my shoulders, shaking me into wakefulness. Without opening my eyes, I ask what's happening. My first attempt emerges as a croak, so I swallow a few times, and open my eyes. The bright lights pierce my eyes like shards of glass, and I wince.

Trying again, I see Marie sitting next to the bed, and a blessed glass of water, which I down in two gulps. Now that I can finally communicate with human beings, instead of the mysterious frog creatures from Mars, I ask her why she woke me up. Instead of answering, she nods her head in the direction of John's bed. I follow the gesture, and see him sitting up, eyes bleary with sleep but definitely awake.

Tension that I wasn't aware of in my back dissipates, and I let out a deep breath, looking at him still. I try to get up and stand next to him, and then nearly collapse in a pile at the foot of the bed as my upper body moves forward and my legs resolutely refuse to budge. This sudden action brings to my attention the continued soreness in my bones, and the fact that my feet are asleep. Righting myself, and standing more carefully, I walk over gingerly.

"John?" He looks at me, and there are shadows in his eyes that I don't remember seeing even when we were fighting each other. "Are," I hesitate, knowing it's a stupid question, but I can't think of anything else to say. "How are you?" He snorts and looks away, wrapping his arms around himself. "Yeah, I know. Stupid question."

I look down. Maybe it's crazy, but I feel more apprehensive now than I did before.

* * *

Wow, chapter 23. This is getting to be way longer than I had originally planned. I just keep getting ideas, and they don't seem to want to leave me alone. Hope you like it!

Colvine


	24. Chapter 24

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

**And Then There Were Two**

John/Pyro

It's colder. That's the expected response, and it's true. But there are other things, more subtle things, which tell me immediately after I wake that I have lost something. The colours are off, as though there was an extra colour in my landscape, one that I have no name for, which has suddenly gone missing. The background noise that was so common, so constant that I never even noticed it, is suddenly jarring because it is missing a layer. The air flows differently.

I feel like a part of my mind that has always been open to me, one as natural and subconscious as the part that tells me to breathe, has been closed, shut me out. It's true, I suppose, in the most basic sense.

"John?" A quiet, gentle voice cuts into my reflection and I look up. Marie gazes back at me, and smiles weakly. The concern and anger in her eyes surprises me. I didn't really think she would care, but knowing that she does means a lot.

I look at her steadily, and she looks back. I have nothing to say, and it appears that she won't speak first. Marie is probably the person most likely to understand what I'm going through here, but I still don't want to talk. I know what's happened, and nothing she says will change that. She puts a hand on my shoulder, and we stay like that for a moment. I wish that it wasn't the case most of the time, but I feel a lot better for the small gestures that people make, perhaps because they were few and far between before I met Marie and Bobby.

I feel feverish and weak, and my head throbs whenever I move it. Despite this, I look around the room, trying to distract myself. I see Bobby in the bed next to me, and my heart skips a beat.

He is paler than is natural, and he looks drained. He's lying on his side, facing towards me, and I re-map the contours of his face, like I haven't seen him in years. Noticing, perhaps, the sudden focussing of my attention, Marie explains to me, "He's fine, just a bit tired. You had a bit of a fever and it wouldn't come down, so they got him to cool you down. It worked, but it took more out of him than the idiot wanted to admit. He'd want me to wake him now that you're up; just hang on while I get some water," and she walks off.

I watch him sleeping, conflicted. Luckily, she's back before I can confuse myself with half-formed ideas and doubts.

Nudging him awake, I see her eyes linger for just a moment with a deep, inexplicable sadness before a shield snaps into place. He makes an unintelligible grunt with a questioning slant to it, and I smile despite myself before a wave of shivers gets a grip, seeming to originate in my spine. By the time I can pay attention again he has drained the glass and is looking at me.

I meet his gaze with a different kind of shiver entirely, feeling my fingers itch with the urge to touch him. Welcome warmth flows up the back of my neck. At the same time, I feel an ugly envy for him because he has still what I have lost.

"John?" he asks, somehow pouring volumes of longing and fear and relief into that one word.

Suddenly, all the rage and confusion and fear and emptiness that I should have been feeling already break through the flood gates of apathy that were holding them back. I feel cheated and wronged, and at the same time some guilty part if my conscience tells me I deserve it all and more, which only makes me angrier and guiltier. I'm scared shitless, and the helplessness that I feel does nothing to improve the general mood I'm already in.

I look back to him with his exhausted, hopeful, beautiful face and feel like something has hit me in the stomach. Hard. I'm bad for him, I think. I've made him tired and lonely and desperate, and he's too fucking good for me. Unstained by whatever it is that marks me out for misfortune. In tune with the theme of revelations, I realize that I love him. This realization comes as another punch to my already mistreated midsection.

"Are," his voice is hesitant in the quiet room, and I notice Marie has disappeared. "How are you?" I snort derisively. He knows very well how I am. I feel another bout of shudders coming on and wrap my arms around my torso to try to avert them as he says ruefully, "Yeah, I know. Stupid question." He subsides for a bit, looking down dejectedly and I feel another arrow of guilt. "It was Mystique," he tries again, and this time his voice has an angry undertone to it.

"I know." My voice surprises me, raw and ragged and lower than usual. He looks up again, in surprise this time, "You knew?"

"She said something that no one else had any business knowing," I say reluctantly. I'd rather he didn't ask. Hoping to divert his attention from the previous statement, I ask, "Where is she?"

"Locked up and knocked out," he says, looking as though he's going to continue when the shudders start. They are subtle at first, and then they become larger and larger until I'm shaking, muscles in my stomach contracting painfully.

He's by my side in seconds, looking helpless at first and then enveloping me in a hug of dubious practical value. As good as that feels, it also frustrates me, as I think that almost every moment of weakness I have had, he has been there. The frustration builds as the shakes subside, gripping my lungs and throat, crushing down on my chest, allowing me to misdirect all of my anger.

"Get off," I say, almost snarling. It isn't remarkable in its volume but in its venom, which he reads correctly, recoiling first with confusion and then with anger. His eyes narrow and he shoves his hands in his pockets. Even through a haze of anger I notice that he looks really gorgeous when he's angry.

That was stupid. Most of me already regrets it, but I also feel a grim, ugly satisfaction. Misery loves company after all, and second best to not feeling miserable is making others miserable with you. Stuck in a tug-of-war between regret and anger, I watch silently as the muscles in his forearms tighten, and he sets his jaw. Gorgeous, and walking away from me. I really should say something.

I don't, of course.

I'm still sitting; my arms pulled around myself to fend off the cold and the shakes. I feel curiously empty, hollow, now that the anger has drained away. Marie comes back after a while, looking curious. "Bobby just stormed off. I almost fell coming through the door, because he had iced the floor where he was walking. What happened?" I want to glare, but ironically I can't quite muster the requisite anger. I feel drained and tired again.

Surprisingly, or perhaps not, she guesses correctly, "Oh, you idiot, you got angry, didn't you?" I look at her guiltily past my hair, thinking that I need to cut it again. This is all she needs as an affirmation, and she sighs, "Of course you did." More hesitantly this time, "Do you want me to talk to him for you?"

"No." Definitely not.

"Alright. Do you mind if I stay?" I pause, uncertain. "Yeah," my voice still thick and tattered.

"Yeah stay, or yeah you mind?"

"The first one," I mutter, wishing my voice wouldn't crack the way it does. She smiles at me, "Good, because I wasn't going to leave." I scoff, but I appreciate it quietly. She sets about trying to distract me, and while it's painfully obvious what she's doing I'm grateful anyways. Not that she'll ever hear about my gratitude from me.

I think she knows anyways.

* * *

I've heard the bad news officially now, as if I couldn't tell before. I've had to endure the pitying glances all day. Then there was Logan, who just looked, and then walked out. I met the guy who fixed my hands, which was both weird and awkward. The general population isn't allowed in here yet, while they decide what to do with me. And her, presumably.

Now that I've been left alone, I have some time to inspect my hands. I don't know what I expected, but this isn't it. I thought that they'd either be completely fixed, or still hideously burned. This just looks like the healing has been sped up and assisted in places. My right hand has minor burn marks added to the already existing ones. The palm of my left hand has a large splotch of scar tissue across the middle, and some other, older scars that look like they have healed slightly. I'll never be a hand model, but I can still use them, so I'm mostly satisfied.

Now if I could just rid myself of this hollow, guilty feeling and get some goddamn sleep.

Frankly, I'm feeling more déjà-vu than is comfortable, considering.

I groan lightly and shut my eyes more tightly. I used to use the fire from a little candle I had hidden in my room to help myself sleep, which isn't going to happen this time. Counting sheep doesn't work. I think back, trying to remember what used to fix my infrequent bouts of insomnia when I was younger.

Breathing. I would lie there, awake and restless, and I would listen to breathing, my own or someone else's, until I fell asleep. I start counting my breaths, and my mind wanders. I try not to pay it any attention, and just relax. Finally, it works and I'm drifting in a sea of dreams without an anchor. I dream of a cool, familiar hand resting on my forehead, and then later by my hand. I smile, twisting closer to the vision of the hand. Then the feeling fades and I'm floating aimlessly again.

A yellow-eyed shadow stalks the landscape of my mind.

Eventually I drift back to reality. I sit up and then attempt to haul myself from the bed. Apart from soreness, and residual weakness from the fever, I'm alright. I walk carefully to a window and lean on the sill. Standing there, I brush my hand regretfully, remembering where his had rested as I dreamt.

I can only take so much melancholy, I decide, and begin hobbling bathroom-wards. I wash my face and drink some water, and consider brushing my teeth. Too much effort is the eventual consensus. I plant my hands on the counter and inspect my face in the mirror. I look like a chemo patient; gaunt, tired and somehow… vacant. I try on a scowl.

Jesus, I look like the Grim Reaper. Somehow, my sick fuck of a psyche thinks that this is goddamn hilarious, and I start laughing. It's hard laughter, with an edge of hysteria, of desperation. I wonder if I'm going crazy. I sink along the counter to the floor, still laughing, tears forming at the corners of my eyes. Then, abruptly as it had started, it is finished, and I'm left in a too-quiet room with a headache and the echoes of my manic laughter.

Absolutely fucking typical.

It seems like whenever I stop moving I fall into the self-pity trap, so my solution is to keep moving. Like I'd really like my own clothes back, and I don't want to know why I'm not wearing them now. I look around and eventually find them where any reasonable person would put them, next to the bed. Thinking resentfully that I really shouldn't be left alone after such a traumatic incident, I pull on my own pants. I could be fucking suicidal. I tug my t-shirt over my head, and grab the sweater that someone has helpfully brought from my room.

That done, I wander, poking at and inspecting all the unnecessarily fragile and intricate looking equipment. I'm feeling a shadowy urge to smash something against the wall or floor, and see if they'd come running for _that_, though I appear to be a secondary concern.

I hear the door open, and wonder scornfully if some sort of alarm goes off whenever I have a destructive thought. I wouldn't put it past them. I don't turn around, pointedly ignoring whoever it is in the hope that they'll piss off and leave me alone. No such luck it appears, as a pair of hands settles onto my shoulders and I'm spun around.

My hands ball into fists and I pull away, furious words forming on my tongue. They die there, too, as I see Bobby looking back at me, one of his hands still resting on my shoulder. Without my permission, my hands relax, but at the same time I draw in air, about to say something angry and stupid. He seems to see this coming, because his other hand comes up to cover my mouth. For a moment, I'm incoherent with indignation, and this is all he needs.

"No, shut up. I know you're angry. You sure as hell should be. Just, don't be angry with _me_, don't do that again. I couldn't take it a second time, and then I think I might walk away, and I _really_ don't want to. Not after all the stupid shit we've had to deal with." I'm saved from having to answer because his hand is still over my mouth, seemingly forgotten. That's probably for the best, because I can't seem to get my mouth to say what I want it to, today and yesterday.

I can almost taste his skin on my lips, and then he pulls it away and steps back, watching me expectantly. I look at him, thinking furiously. I can still feel the angry darkness, wanting to lash out at anything and everything, and so I don't want to talk, afraid of what might come out if I start.

I keep staring, mutely, and disappointment, bitter disappointment spreads across his face. I'm hurting him again. He turns as if to leave, and the words are ripped from my throat. "No!" and he looks back, his expression guarded. I hate that.

"No. You're right. I… I'm sorry, about," I trail off as he nods, accepting my apology, and shuts his eyes with a sigh of relief. I continue, "But understand that I'm not going to be," I grimace, "polite, or, I don't know, well-behaved or anything."

He smiles easily, "That would just be weird. I love your temper. Just, not when I'm on the wrong side of it." I rub the palm of my hand on my jeans and step closer to him, just as he does the same. The first motion catches his eye, and he takes my hand, tracing the outline of the scar with his thumb. The air of the gesture, more familiar than exploratory, makes me wonder whether I dreamed his presence near me last night.

The thought floods my stomach with warmth. I grab him without warning and kiss his face, his neck, his lips. Surprised at first, he pulls his arms up and around, and then matches me, bringing his mouth to my own. Heartened, I make an attempt to devour his mouth and lips and possibly tonsils, but unfortunately my lungs begin to object and I reluctantly disconnect us. I'm on a heady rush and possibly floating.

Flushed and breathing heavily himself, he says with an effort, "Relax. We've got all day, and you're sick." Trying to marshal my thoughts into order is like herding cats, but I try for his sake. "I'm not contagious, so no worries," and my laugh is only slightly bitter so I think I'm improving.

"Yes, but if you pass out or something, it will be both awkward and frustrating," he says, and I'm amazed he can speak because I'm having trouble thinking straight.

Bad wording there, perhaps.

He kisses me, and I pull us both backwards, thinking that eventually we'll hit a bed or something. I can't think coherently beyond that point. A few steps further and he's getting more involved and it had better be close by, I think desperately, and then there's something bed shaped at the back of my legs. I just drop, too caught up to be graceful, pulling him with me.

He yelps in surprise and catches himself just above me, which just won't do. I drag him closer, and then flip us, just like I learned in some stupid self-defence class in school, right before public school and I parted ways. However, what they didn't warn us about during that class was that it generally results in rather a lot of contact, and friction. I breathe in suddenly and shakily, and I hear him groan, deep in the back of his throat.

I hear the door handle turning, and scramble off the bed, helping him up as I go. When it finally opens, we are slightly more decent than previously. Storm walks in, takes us both in, clears her throat and walks out again without a word. I think about how we must look, flushed and breathing heavily next to a messed bed, and I'm not surprised that she left.

Unsteadily, pulling my hand though my hair to stop it shaking, I remark, "She has the worst timing in the whole fucking world." His eyes darken and I feel my heart beat faster and hotter in my chest. Then the blood rushes to my head and I start feeling dizzy and sick. He notices and laughs unevenly.

"You look like you're on the verge of actually fainting. How about we continue this later?" Petulantly, I think that I want to continue right now, thank you very much, but he'd never let me live it down if I did pass out. I love him, I most definitely lust after him, and he bugs the shit out of me.

I'd like to be able to say that out loud some time. All three parts of the sentiment, actually.

Not _too_ soon, though.

* * *

Well. Not much to say about that, really. Shock and surprise: two updates within a week of each other! Um, I hope you enjoy it.

Colvine.


	25. Chapter 25

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

**And Then There Were Two**

Bobby/Iceman

"_Get off_." I stand still for a moment, wondering what the shit just happened. Then, as no explanation is forthcoming, my fists tighten, my jaw clenches. I turn, and stalk out, furious and confused. I barely notice Marie. I just keep walking, faster and faster.

I find myself in my room, and pull my hands from their resting place in my pockets. I begin to pace back and forth, circling like a caged beast. I open and close my fists agitatedly, my breath comes faster. I reach for the wall, possibly to punch it in my frustration. Then I set both palms flat against the wall and set my forehead between them, closing my eyes. My breathing slows down gradually, and I notice with disbelief that the air is freezing in here. I breathe out and it wafts about the room before dissipating.

I don't get it.

I don't understand and my pride stings and I love him and I hate him and I want, so badly, to make it better somehow. I don't know what to do.

It's probably a cold day, but that's not exactly a concern for me. I leave the building, and set off in the direction of the nearby town, about 45 minute's walk. I could drive, but that wouldn't really hep me blow off steam, so I walk. I don't know what exactly I'll do when I get there. Maybe just walk back.

The winds picks up, stirring the dead leaves and dirt into the air. I spread my arms, throw my head back and spin around once or twice, revelling in the biting air as it rushes past my face. I probably look like a lunatic, but I don't really care. No one ever comes up this road unless they're coming to the school, in which case they've got better things to worry about than a crazy guy by the side of the road.

I feel a little crazy anyways.

I come to an intersection, and past it buildings start to appear. I keep walking, following this road. Eventually I reach what could, in a pinch, be called downtown. The sun looks like it's getting ready to set. It must be almost 6. I look around.

Strip mall (closed), grocery store, bar, pool hall, and some sort of government building. Apartments, Chinese restaurants, McDonalds. My, what a plethora of attractive possibilities. I consider the pool hall, but it smells like weed. I refuse to be one of those people weeping into their burger under a fluorescent McDonalds light, leaving me with the choice of alcohol or Chinese food.

I approach the bar hoping that I look old enough, then walk in and realize I shouldn't have worried. The guy behind the bar looks like he wouldn't care if I shot someone in the bathroom, as longs as I didn't leave too much of a mess. I ask for a beer and then go sit at a table in the corner. I note with disgust that it looks as though it hasn't been cleaned since before I was born.

Inspecting my fellow patrons, though, they seem like the types that don't even notice the settings as long as the alcohol keeps coming. There's one hairy giant at the counter that appears to have melded with his too-small barstool. I shudder and look away.

I guess this is what the general population has to do to get drunk and miserable, if we aren't blessed with the miraculous ability to liberate large quantities of alcohol without any apparent effort. I smile bitterly at the thought, and take a mouthful of my beer, then wince as it scalds my taste buds. It tastes like I imagine horse piss would. Looking unobtrusively around for a plant to dump this swill into so I can leave, I notice the man/mountain is shifting. Fascinated, I watch, wondering if he walks or rolls.

It turns out that it is a combination, as he lumbers over to another table attempting to hit on some girl, who looks like she'd rather be anywhere but there. She also looks like she has no objection to the piss-beer, judging by the three bottles in front of her. Jumping at the opportunity to leave the drink behind, and do my good deed for the week, I walk over to her table, apologizing for my lateness.

I'm amazed that it worked. I didn't think that sort of thing happened in real life, but she smiles falsely at the mountain and says "I told you my boyfriend was coming. Sorry." Rumbling his regrets, he turns and rolls out the door, presumably in search of another bar, or his own private supply perhaps. She turns to me and actually smiles. "Thank you for that. I'm Charlie."

"Bobby." I hold my hand out and we shake. She laughs lightly, sounding drunker than she looks. "He tries that every other week, and I'm running out of excuses. This should keep me going for another few weeks at least." Her eyelids lower and she looks at me speculatively, "Unless you'd actually like to be my boyfriend?" This catches my attention, and I actually look at her. She has long, dark hair, although I can't tell the colour thanks to the terrible lighting, with murky blue eyes and reddish lips. Her skin looks soft and she's quite pretty, but I'm not interested, which worries me a bit.

"Ah, sorry Charlie, I'm…" I trail off, wondering what I am. Not taken anymore, from the way John was snarling at me, not exactly gay. What am I?

"Oh," she says, looking unsurprised. "Well, it seems like all the good guys are these days. Thanks anyways, Billy." I don't bother correcting her.

"No problem. I have to go." I beat a hasty retreat.

I should have jumped at the offer Charlie was making. She was pretty and tipsy, and I'm feeling angry and vaguely lonely. We would have made an excellent pair. Well, no matter, I'll try the smelly pool hall next. Maybe a gorgeous blonde will proposition me there.

I look around and see a disheartening lack of gorgeous blondes, and a surplus of high school age, pimpled teenage males. Just about to lose hope and go home, I notice a guy standing with a friend and someone who could only be the friend's girlfriend, considering the way she's hanging off of him. He looks to be a couple years older than me, and adequately gorgeous to make up for the lack of the blonde damsel in distress that I came in here seeking. He has black, spiky hair and dark eyes and just then he laughs at something the girlfriend says, and the sound makes the back of my neck heat up.

I'm still not interested. I mean, in a purely physical sense I am, and I was slightly with Charlie as well. But I'm not _interested_.

This is worse than I had thought. I'm feeling the onset of chronic monogamy, and it is all his fault.

* * *

I returned with the intention of starting a fight or at the very least demanding an explanation. By the time I got back, it was dark out, but no one seemed to have noticed my absence yet. I reached the infirmary just as Logan was walking out, talking to Thorpe (Thorn?), who nods to me uneasily and walks away. Logan stays for a minute, asking, "How're you, Drake?"

It must have been tremendously painful for him, expressing concern. It certainly looks that way. I smile bitterly, "I was fine with things before all this shit." I usually only swear when I'm in a bad mood. This qualifies.

He looks at me slyly. "Not a shit disturber then, are you?" This surprises a laugh out of me.

"Well, that might incite the shit to hit the fan." He chuckles, and delivers the final blow. "Well, kid, shit happens."

"Thanks for that, Logan." He continues on his way with his hands in his pockets. Despite the care-free picture he presents, it looks as though something is bothering him. I decide that I can barely deal with my own problems and should keep my nose out of other people's. I walk in.

And stop. He's sleeping (I hear a voice in the back of my mind saying 'that's what people _do _at night, Bobby') and from the looks of it, in the grip of a nightmare. I think, vindictively, good. Then I wonder what the nightmare might be. I think about what he might be thinking. I feel a chill as I realize how he must feel, and most of my anger dissipates. I move to sit beside his bed, and look at him again. There's a bit of moonlight filtering into the room and not much else, making him seem faint and unearthly. That's not to say angelic, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he doesn't seem quite natural in this light. It sends shivers up my spine, and I'm not sure whether they're good shivers or bad ones.

He shifts around and makes a distressed noise, and I put my hand on his forehead, running it through his hair slowly. It's a knee-jerk reaction, something I do without thinking, but it seems to have worked. I take my hand from his forehead and lay it over his hand. He smiles in his sleep and turns slightly towards me. A feeling of warmth rises from the pit of my stomach to fill my chest, and a thought rises unbidden from the depths of my subconscious.

It is not entirely ridiculous to think that I love him.

Trying to explain the thought away, I think that it is also possible that I am sleep-deprived. I distract myself by examining the scars left on the palm of his hand with both of mine, and he murmurs something. I determinedly refuse to wonder what it might have been. Instead, I gently deposit his hand back on the bed and go back to my room to get some sleep, and hope that my thoughts will make more sense in the morning.

* * *

They don't. They keep telling me to go talk to him, when I want to do anything but. Unfortunately, that is getting difficult because people keep asking me where he is, since he disappeared rather abruptly a few days ago. Finally I give in and go, offering Kitty a feeble excuse about a visit to something and fleeing.

I walk in and he is looking at the heart-rate thing as if he wonders how loud it would be if he threw it at a wall. He keeps his back to me, which is fine. I'm antsy and keyed up and filled with nervous energy, trying to convince myself not to do what I'm about to do, that it'll be a mistake, and then I've done it and it's too late.

I grab his shoulders and turn him around to face me, watching as fury flares up and then abruptly dies on his face, encouraging me. Then he breathes in and I cover his mouth with my hand because I have something to say this time, although I'm not sure yet what it is. "No, shut up." Okay, bad start. Keep going, fast.

"I know you're angry. You sure as hell should be. Just, don't be angry with _me_, don't do that again. I couldn't take it a second time, and then I think I might walk away, and I _really_ don't want to. Not after all the stupid shit we've had to deal with." That was more heart-pouring and soul-baring than I wanted to do, but probably necessary. I leave my hand where it is for a moment, memorizing the feel of his skin and lips, just in case this doesn't work and this is the last time I touch them.

He looks at me, almost blankly. I wait. And wait some more. Then I turn, disappointment a hot, bitter lump in my throat, threatening to rise up and choke me. The room twists around me as I walk away.

"No!" I turn, hope flaring in my chest like a firecracker, but I push it away from my face. He won't see me sit up on his whim like a pet dog. "No, you're right. I'm sorry about…" I nod and he stops gratefully. My eyelids drop wearily and I sigh, suddenly weak with the release of tension. He continues, "But understand that I'm not going to be polite, or, I don't know, well-behaved or anything."

I laugh and reply in high spirits, "That would just be weird. I love," you, I was about to say. A Freudian slip, I guess, but I substitute 'your temper' and that's one big deal postponed until later. Much later. "Just, not when I'm on the wrong side of it." He laughs and rubs the palm of his hand against his jeans, stepping closer as I do. Remembering the gesture from last night, I take his hand and trace the burn marks with my thumb. I see him smile softly for a second.

The next second, his lips are all over my face. I freeze, and then bring my arms up hesitantly, wrapping them around his shoulders. The next time the erratic path of his kissing brings his lips to mine, I kiss back and hold him there. This seems to have been the cue he was waiting for, and his tongue invades my mouth, apparently attempting to taste every surface in it at the same time. I'm starting to feel light-headed. I feel vaguely as though I should be concerned for him, but whenever I try to pin the thought down it flits away.

Eventually, one of us has to breathe, although I can't tell which, and we are separated. I gasp a few times, and am finally able to capture that stray thought. I voice it before it escapes from me again. "Relax. We've got all day," more than that, if I have anything to say about it, "and you're sick."

"I'm not contagious, so no worries," and he laughs, but it is a ragged, wounded laugh. Concerned, I make a bad joke about fainting and kiss him, trying to show him that I have no aversion to touching him. Also, because I really want to be kissing again.

I probe forward with my tongue and he pulls me closer, then his mouth is open and I think we're walking forward but I can't quite tell. Then I'm falling forward with a yelp, and I barely have time to throw my arms out to catch myself. Between my outstretched hands is John, his hair spread out in a halo on top of a bed that I have no memory of approaching, one hand on my neck, and the other spread across my back. He's also too far away, I think, and move closer to him, bending my elbows to accommodate. He grins evilly and I just have time to think 'uh-oh' before the world starts spinning.

He's almost close enough, pulled flush against me, and then he pushes up, or maybe down, with his arms and more importantly, his hips. I groan, glad that I'm not supporting myself on my hands anymore because they've suddenly gone weak, and I grasp half-heartedly at the bed sheets. Then I reach up, threading the fingers of one hand through his hair, moving up to meet his lips again-

The door handle turns, and John shoots up, pulling me up in his wake. Storm enters, turns to look for John and finds instead the two of us. She smiles lightly at me, and my cheeks turn yet redder, then she walks out again. He breathes out shakily and pulls a hand through his mussed hair, sending my heart rate racing. "She has the worst timing in the whole fucking world," he suddenly declares. I turn to face him and would have continued where we left off, but I notice that he's looking really sick.

"You look like you're on the verge of actually fainting. How about we continue this later?" He scowls at me, but then nods. I sit on the bed and shuffle to the side invitingly. They weren't really built to accommodate two people, so it's a bit of a squeeze when he does come and sit. I can't say I mind.

I sneak an arm behind his back and around so my hand rests just above his hip bone and I pull him closer. He stiffens for a second, then breathes out in a short puff and relaxes into my side. "So, I hand in interesting day, yesterday," I say when the silence becomes heavy.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. First, I went to this bar, and there was this _huge _guy. He was like a mountain. And then he went up to this other girl who was sitting at the bar, and started hitting on her, and she was looking at him, like 'get away, before I poke out your eyes.' So I went over and said, 'Sorry I'm late,' and it actually worked! And then the guy rumbled, and kind of lumbered off. I swear, he was like a troll, I bet he had lichen growing on him and everything."

Then she said 'Thanks, I'm Charlie,' and I was like, 'no problem,' and it really wasn't, 'cause I could have turned him into an iceberg or something, but I could hardly tell her that. And then she said that Mr. Man-Mountain tries that, like, every week or something, which is a little sad, then she asked if I wanted to be her boyfriend," he goes kind of rigid, but I continue, "which was kinda out of the blue, but she sounded pretty drunk. And I said no, sorry." The tension eases from his muscles at my side, and I nudge him lightly. "Frankly, I think this is your fault. I had to ditch poor, drunk Charlie, and I blame you."

He scoffs at me, but I look at him side-long just in time to catch a smile.

I keep talking, not really caring what I'm talking about, and every once in a while I'll look over at him. Most of the time, there is a distant, contemplative look, but sometimes I see a smile, and I hope that I had something to do with it.

* * *

Happy Thanksgiving! (or whatever you say, during thanksgiving.)

Colvine


	26. Chapter 26

**Disclaimer**: I own almost nothing. Except for my doggie. Not X-Men, though.

**And Then There Were Two**

John/Pyro

Fuck.

That about sums it up, I think.

I have this, I don't know, this urge to set the world on fire, to watch it burn and laugh. It's not a new thing, not by any stretch. It would just creep up on me, whenever I sit still too long, stay in one place too long, let anyone too close to me. Then I'd start hearing whispering behind the closed doors in my head, which would grow to persuasive, seductive murmurs that were so hard to say no to, so hard to ignore.

The Professor tried to help me, tried to keep it quiet for me, but they didn't like him, and I didn't like him in my head, so I would lie. I'd say I couldn't hear them anymore, or that I could deal with them myself, and then go pick a fight with someone. Usually Bobby.

I think that he knew I was lying.

It isn't fair that they're here. I had them, for a while. Under control, sort of. They would listen to me when I said shut up, and I could just ignore them when they told me what to do. No one tells me what to do, I would think. (That was a lie. Everyone was telling me what to do. Even sticky, slimy Toad had orders for me.) But now they're back and I have no buffer, no shield of flames to build in my mind, because even the fires in my own head have gone out.

I can't stand it, it's driving me insane. I used to be able to stave it off, with small fires or, sometimes, big ones. They'd always start as small fires, though. I found that so… _appealing_. These things would start off, small, useless, powerless, and then they would grow and grow and grow until there was nothing but the fire. It was _consuming_.

Christ, I sound like a certifiable loon.

When there was fire, when I held fire, I wasn't fuck-up little unwanted St. John. No, I was… I don't even know what, I just was. I was something bigger, more powerful, than myself. I was more worthwhile, because people looked at me. And then screamed, usually, but they were looking at _me_, not another nameless kid that would disappear into a cheap, broken down house every day until one day he just doesn't reappear. People really fucking care, when your hands are like an un-extinguishable flamethrower.

But apparently it can be extinguished. Anything can.

The flames had made me a person, and now they're gone, and I'm back to being nothing special, back to being someone you could find ten more of, anywhere you looked.

Bobby turns onto his side next to me, and I smile bitterly. Not like him. No, he's stupid goddamn one-of-a-kind, 'prep-school' Bobby, with his perfect family and his perfect face and that stupid, infuriating smile. Even being a mutant is alright, like he's some sort of little hero, instead of the crazed vigilantes that we all really are. With me, with anyone else, it's '_freak'_, but give him five years and there'll be a fucking action figure, I swear to god.

I'm really the flaw here, that one little jarring, unfortunate detail.

I shouldn't be here, we shouldn't be… there shouldn't be a 'we'. It should… Fuck it, I don't even know. Maybe one more bout of world-saving I guess, or the stupid white picket fence and two-and-a-half kids, white-bread little American dream. Maybe he could stay here and nobly be an inspiration for persecuted, disheartened little mutant kiddies everywhere.

This should… it shouldn't make me feel so angry.

But I'm here anyways, marring the picture, spoiling the symphony, angry as shit and powerless, with more holes in me than goddamned Swiss cheese. I'm incomplete, we all are; the missing link between humanity and whatever we're supposed to be next. I feel a moment of hatred and envy for him, wishing that I could be perfect and seamless, or at least look it, instead of half broken and missing pieces, like some stupid kid's puzzle. Incomplete.

Funny how names seem to define me. St. John is the loser, the unwanted little shit that I, ironically, am still trying unsuccessfully to ditch. Other people found it so easy.

Pyro is who I turn into when to urge (_burnburnburn_ and _fuck-you-all_, even now I can hear it) is too strong to ignore.

And John is... well fuck it; I still don't know who John is, who I am.

Trying futilely to distract myself, I wonder if he's still talking, and whether I've missed it.

Turning, I realize I needn't have worried. He's managed to slide from sitting on the bed upright to lying on his side, fast asleep, all without me noticing. His head is about level with my chest, and he's smiling.

I wonder why. What's worth smiling about, anymore? I wish I could have the peace he's got, but then I wonder is it's worth it. Would being that way mean I would lose something intrinsic about myself? Or would I just be less… angry, all the fucking time? Could I stop mistrusting everyone and everything around me, stop believing and assuming the worst, stop thinking about how much better things would be if they were on fire, or is that just who I am?

Fuck. I'm having a stupid, overdramatic little pity-fest, and I can't seem to stop myself. It's disgustingly addictive.

I slither my way down until I'm at about eye level with him, twist onto my side and prop my head up on my hand, looking at him curiously. I wonder if the circumstances we find ourselves in have anything to do with karma. I was probably an absolute bastard on the last ride on the cosmic merry-go-round, to deserve all this. I guess I get why people want to believe in gods, or karma or… or _something_. Even the thought that you're being punished for something you haven't done yet, or don't remember doing, is better than the possibility that there is absolutely no rhyme or reason for any of it, that your suffering is as significant as a one tiny bit of hay in a universe full of haystacks, and about as individual.

He curls closer to me, almost burying his nose in my shoulder in a very dog-like gesture, and I know that I'm screwed by the way that my traitor heart leaps, up apparently to catch my breath in my throat. I wonder when I got to be such a sucker for him. Probably it was inevitable. Fucking Drake.

I try to fall asleep for a while, unsuccessfully. Just after I've given up, with copious cursing of course, I find myself in what could only be a dream, because I don't remember boarding a jet plane. Or that jet planes had chocolate fountains in them (what the hell?).

I try to grab onto the dream only to find it dashing into the misty distances of my mind, and I'm awake again. Or, at least, I'm probably awake. Either way, Bobby is looking at me. "Hey. Good… morning? No, more like afternoon, I think. Well, whatever. You should probably rest, I'll go, I don't know, make you some real food, I remember how crap the food they let you have in here is."

I appreciate the thought, (sort of) but there is a reason that he is unofficially banned from the kitchen. "Right. Bobby, do you actually _remember_ what happened last time you tried to make food? It was the largest and most impressive bit of non-mutation-related damage to the building in… ever."

"You're exaggerating. And anyways, maybe this time-"

"No, not this time. Just ask someone else to do it for you."

"But that would constitute a fatal injury to my manly pride, from which I may never recover! Would you be able to live with that?" I pretend to consider it for a moment. "I would if I had some edible food to eat while I watched you die what would undoubtedly be an overdramatic and amusing death." He brings his hand to his heart (I'm-wounded!) and then laughs raucously, and my stomach did not just fucking flip-flop. He swoops in, kisses me and rolls off the bed onto his feet.

Or I think that that was the intention, anyways. The first half goes off without a hitch, but his calculations must have included more bed than was there (turns out I'm a bit of a bed hog), and ends up sitting on the floor on his ass, looking (adorably) perplexed. I start snickering.

Trying to stop laughing, or at least catch my breath, I say, "Wow, that was really… graceful." When I can finally look at him without bursting into laughter, I glance over and am surprised to find him smiling instead of wearing the 'stop-fucking-laughing-you-bastard' look that generally accompanies my laughing at him. That look, incidentally, only makes me laugh harder, so it was probably wise of him to abandon it.

He just keeps smiling faintly at me as he gets up and I have to wonder if I have something on my face. Wiping at it surreptitiously, I turn away for a second. When I look back, he's walking out. I pull myself wearily out of bed to go wash up.

Afterwards I look at the mirror warily, half-expecting another Grim Reaper moment. Not this time, luckily. I just see me. Sometimes I feel dissatisfied with that. I feel like I ought to be… more, somehow, or maybe less. But I can never think what other thing I should become, either, which is pretty useless. I trace the lines in the mirror with a fingertip, thinking. Maybe this is just typical teenager, or frankly typical human nature. Always wanting something different, never just satisfied with what's already there.

One particular typical teenager thing that I appear to be lacking, though, is sex. That's not to say that teenagers often have it, but it's certainly the general preoccupation. There is a strange lack of it in my relationship with Bobby. It's really weird. You've got two teenage males, attracted and so on; it follows almost without question that sex will occur. But it hasn't.

I wonder what that means. If it means anything. For him, it might not; I don't know, the whole saving oneself for marriage deal, or something like that. I wouldn't put it past him at this point.

But me? I've never exactly been one for moving slowly before.

Although, I don't know if that's really even the case. I mean the first guy I was with (and I use that term loosely), he wanted to 'try it out', and then never really stopped trying things. And then after that, everything was more physical than emotional. I guess I thought that that was just how it was, I certainly didn't mind. I guess that it didn't help that the last sort-of-relationship I had, occurred was while I was probably a little bit hung up on him, crazy-angry and looking for oblivion, or at least the kind of forgetfulness that one might find while looking through the bottoms of beer bottles.

It's still weird that we aren't humping like bunnies, though.

"Hey John?" Guiltily, I jump halfway out of my skin before turning to the door (Christ, I don't even remember leaving the bathroom).

It looks like my giant puppy dog is back, tail wagging and all. The smell coming from the tray couldn't normally qualify as heavenly – I think it's just some toast and egg – but it'll do, because all I've had for the last few days is the equivalent of hospital food, and I'm ready to die from the blandness of it all.

Hesitantly, I look at him and then start eating.

"So, why did you jump like that when I called you?" he asks randomly, a little while later. I pointedly don't answer, but I'm betrayed by my ears, which turn bright red as I consider the possibilities once again. He has no idea what I'm thinking, (I hope) but seems to be having a sympathetic reaction as he colours slightly and looks off to the side. "Ah."

"Oh, come on! I haven't even told you what I was thinking yet," I protest, exasperated.

He smiles at me sidelong. "Not exactly, but you got that look."

I cock my head, a little confused. "I wasn't aware of a look." He full-on smirks this time. "No? Well, you were looking. You were _definitely_ looking," and something about the way he says it makes it very clear that he has an at least somewhat accurate idea of what I was thinking. It also forces me to re-examine my preconception that he has no idea what he's doing. I'm a bit glad to be able to discard it. This'll make everything so much more fun if we can ever manage to-

"You're doing it again." Shit. Randomly, I think that I really like his voice right now, the way it seems to have dropped half an octave. Now, though, I'm faced with a dilemma. Do I finish the food quickly, or not at all? And do I go over the table or around? Choices, choices.

All the while that I'm thinking this, there's a small, pissed off voice muttering at me, 'Typical. You think that you've got all these problems, but then as soon as the mere _thought_ of sex appears, a mere possibility, then they're all yesterday's news.' I scoff and ignore it. Then I decide to reconsider somewhat, and resume eating my breakfast with what must seem, to an impatient observer, to be torturous slowness. This isn't because I'm cruel and sadistic, honestly.

Well, maybe it is, a little bit. But mostly I don't… I don't know. The anger and the desperation are still there, underneath, simmering just below boiling. And the wild-eyed fear, and this incredible frustration, it's all there, and I know that what I want right now is the wrong outlet for all the shit I'm trying to avoid thinking about, but I still want it, so fucking badly.

I want… fuck it, I want him, and I want to know that he wants me. Redundant, I know, but I'm having some self-worth issues. And my answer to that is the wrong answer, again, but that isn't changing anything. I realize I've finished my food and I look over to him. He meets my eyes and, screw butterflies, I've got a red-hot ball of lead in my stomach, sitting warm and heavy and making my hands and my head unsteady.

He's walking towards me, slowly, like he's moving underwater, and I feel strangely disconnected. Somehow all of this feels - surreal. I stand and turn to look out the window, thinking that for all that it's painfully stereotypical, this place is kinda gorgeous also. I hear him walk up behind me, close enough to touch but waiting, I guess, for permission. I relax my shoulders a little, and he rests his hand on my back, rubbing lightly. It's a very intimate gesture somehow and I lean back slightly into it.

He sighs, rests his chin on my shoulder. "Are you alright?" I twist around to answer him with a look. "What d'you think?"

"Yeah," and he wraps both arms around my waist. It's a strange feeling, because I'm expecting body warmth, and there isn't any, really. All I feel is a solid mass at my back. This feeling probably lent me unnecessary, unwise courage.

"I want to see her."

"Who?" he asks, twisting round to face me.

"Mystique," and he stops, probably running the last few words over in his mind, trying to figure out where that came from. Good luck to him, I don't even know. "Oh – kay, I'll just get someone to go wi-"

"No," I cut him off, "I need to talk to her alone."

"Alone. But, you can't…" he abandons that attempt at the mutinous expression on my face and then continues on a different track. "Well, do you want me to come with you then?"

"No!" I protest reactively. The last thing I want is for her to have any sort of access to him. "No, I really want to see her on my own." He holds my gaze for a second, looking for something, then sighs in defeat and says, "Fine. But if you aren't out in 10 minutes I'm coming in to get you."

Suppressing the urge to roll my eyes I turn towards the door in the corner of the room. It seems much more ominous all of a sudden. Reaching for the door handle, I have a moment of hesitation, then exhale impatiently and twist.

Or attempt to, anyways. "Shit. It's locked," I mutter furiously, glaring at the small keypad next to the door. "Isn't it a fire hazard or something to have locked doors all over the place?"

Walking towards me, Bobby replies, "Um, no. And do you really want her behind an unlocked door?" Good point. He reaches me and edges me out of the way to get at the keypad. Without looking up, he explains, "I watched them unlock the door. I was considering having a chat of my own with her. Never did." A series of quiet beeps and then the door makes a satisfying unlatching noise. "If you still want to," he gestures towards the door, "then do it now, before someone comes to check up on you."

"Right. Thanks Bobby." He nods distractedly, and then walks away from the door very quickly. I turn back, pressing my palm into the cool metal of the door, and then push forwards suddenly, before my common sense can intervene.

The room looks like any of the three other private rooms in the infirmary; smallish, well-lit and very clinical looking, with a small cot as the definite centrepiece. I see her sitting in a chair in the corner, hands folded in her lap, and eyes shut. I'm surprised, for a moment, thinking that she isn't restrained, but then I see the thing clamped around her ankle. It looks like one of those parole ankle bracelets, but I expect it has some unpleasant consequences if she leaves the room or whatever. I'm a little surprised that I don't have one of those, frankly.

"Well? You obviously have something to say to me, or you would be out there with your little chew toy. So spit it out, Pyro." Despite myself I start, then go to sit in a chair opposite her. Not too close, though; I'm crazy, not stupid. My mind is suddenly churning, I don't know what I thought I was doing, and I wish I hadn't come. But it's too late to regret things now. "Why?"

She looks up and narrows her eyes, apparently expecting something else. "Why me?" I clarify. A long, sly grin slowly twists her face, and she looks quite mad for a moment. Her voice emerges as a low, quiet hiss, "So you can understand. So that you can feel the emptiness, the futility of it all, so you can have _nothing_… just like I do." Her voice drops to a hiss on 'nothing', and all I can do is stare at her, horrified and furious.

I mean, she has always been someone to be wary of, but she was also, bizarrely, the one person I could trust the most when I was with the Brotherhood. When I arrived, I was hurt, angry and lost, and Magneto was far too busy to bother with a confused, scared teenager. So was she, but she sort of looked after me anyways. She doesn't exactly fit the mother mould, but she seemed almost like an older sister: she could push you around if she felt like it, but god help anyone else who tried to do the same.

"You'll get it back, of course. You always were too strong for your own good." There's a contradictory hint of pride in her words. I feel something similar.

Then her words sink through my skull. "It'll come back? You don't know that. How could you know?" She looks at me through lowered lashes, fake-coyly, and says, "Yes. Almost definitely it will, although I'm not telling you what I know, or how I found out. That's my little secret," her voice becomes cold as she continues. "But now you know what it was like, when you left me behind. It was the same, but I was alone. Abandoned." I shiver involuntarily, imagining it.

Not meeting her eyes, I mutter, "I'm sorry. I didn't want to. I just…" I wonder how it is that the tables have turned, here. I walked through the door full of burning fury and anger that was as righteous as I can get, but now I'm sitting here, apologizing contritely to the same woman who injected me with the cure.

"You don't say no to Magneto, right?" Sheepishly, I nod. Looking at me sharply, she asks, "I don't suppose you'll take this thing off of me?"

"You know I can't." We sit in silence for a while. "Are you sure? That it'll come back, I mean?"

"Yes, it will. In a few weeks. Weak at first, then stronger." I'm so relieved to hear what she's telling me that I could collapse for a moment, and then I notice what she isn't saying. "What about you? You certainly weren't weak, and I thought it was the strong gifts that were supposed to come back." She looks away. "I'm a little bit different. It comes back, scale by scale. It hurts, and it will be years before I'm myself again. Just like the first time, except drawn out, over a long, long time. Or," her voice becomes barren, hopeless again, "this could be it." She reaches for the sleeve of her left arm, pulls it up to her elbow.

There's a raged patch, maybe an inch square, of shocking blue scales. The skin around them is red and raw, and it looks painful. The muscles in her arm tense and then the scales fade until they are the same colour as her skin, then grow dark, shifting through a range of skin tones, and finally revert to bright blue. "But I have a hope. Eventually. Maybe."

I nod, acknowledging her words. "But what will you do now? I mean, you're stuck here."

"Well, I have a while to wait. Maybe I can make myself useful while I'm here, but I think I'll be leaving this place once I'm myself once again." Something about the way she says that strikes a sympathetic chord with me.

Wanderlust, that's what it is. I have itchy feet and a restless mind and I don't know who I am, and I hope that somewhere, out there, I can find out. "Right," I say. "I have to go, before," I smile, "'little sweetheart' gets nervous and barges in here. He's always had a twitchy trigger finger." She gives me a peculiar look, a cross between fond and threatening. "Just let him know that only I get to hurt your feelings."

"I don't really know what to say to her, so I just walk away. He, of course, is standing by the door, looking anxious. When I emerge he hurries over to me and throws a glare over his shoulder at the door. "Don't," I say reflexively.

"Don's what?" he asks me, bewildered.

"Ah, just, try not to hate her a whole lot." This earns me an incredulous look. "Are you crazy? She tried to cure you, she could have killed you!" He waves his arms, trying to communicate the urgency of this point to me- as if I wouldn't understand.

"Yeah, but she knew that I would be alright. …Eventually. And when I was with the Brotherhood, she looked after me. I know it's stupid, but there are only a few people that I can actually trust and for some reason she sort of makes that list. In a weird way." He sighs. "Well, I don't have to like her, or trust her. But if you don't want me to hate her, I'll… try. I won't promise anything." I take a deep breath and pull a face.

"I know." We stand there, looking at one another and I can't think of a thing to say. "Y'know, I am really tired of this place. Let's go."

"Where?"

"Anywhere." He nods. "Alright. Do you want to-"

"I am not going skating. Just so you know." He rolls his eyes, smiling. "Well then how about you tell me where I'm allowed to suggest and I'll say that?" I dig my elbow into his ribs. "Ow!" He bumps me. "Fine. Um, how about the mall? A movie? Uh, we could play pool? C'mon, help me out, there's nothing to do around here. Especially if you're almost broke."

Suddenly light hearted, I say, "Fine. If you can find an ice rink," he grins widely, and I continue, "a _real_ one, then I'll go." His enthusiasm is only slightly dampened. "How pissed off will you be if I invite some of the others?"

I sigh. "Not incredibly," I say, regretting it as soon as the words are out of my mouth. Then he smiles and his eyes crease up and I don't mind so much.

* * *

He found a rink. This is definitely me repaying a karmic debt to some bastard. So here I sit, trying with frozen fingers to lace up rented skates. Bobby really did invite the masses. He even asked Warren, who just laughed then said, 'picture me on ice,' which, incidentally, would be hilarious. Kitty is ready to go, wearing battered white figure skates and a sweater and bouncing with excitement, next to Peter who looks slightly less stoic than usual (because Kitty is standing next to him), Rogue and Jubilee are struggling with their skates and look securely bundled up against the cold.

Not as bundled as I am, though. A sweater, a jacket and two shirts, and I'll probably still freeze to death. I look over at the instigator of this ridiculous outing, preparing a suitable glare of death. Bobby, sitting next to me, just grins back and makes me want to strangle him. "Do you want me to help with those?" he asks, and now I _really _want to strangle him, because he is way too smug for someone who thinks that waltzing around on top of freezing water with goddamn blades on your feet is a good idea.

Marie suddenly declares that her skates are evil bastards and she will just stay and watch. Bobby protests, "Aw come on, we've come all this way," meaning an hour's drive, although it would have been shorter if we (that is, he) hadn't gotten lost, "you have to skate with us!" She sighs, and then relents. "Fine. But you're buying me hot chocolate afterwards."

"Good. Let's go then," he says and then without warning he carries through with his threat of tying my laces for me, despite my slapping at his hands. I find myself caught between mortification and appeased possessiveness, and I cast around for something to stare at other than him, anything to look at other than the top of his head which looks, from this angle, to be placed (very conveniently) in my lap.

Determined not to think about what he should do while he's there, I look at the other crazies who consented to come skating. Kitty is staring, meets my eyes and then looks away. Jubilee looks suspiciously as though she is snickering into her scarf, Peter appears not to notice, and Marie is glaring down at her skates, yanking furiously at the laces. I look back down at the top of Bobby's head as I try to figure out what is bothering me (and I definitely don't think about the blowjob that should really be happening right now. Not at all).

Finally, I figure it out. They don't know that I'm... sick, I guess.

I'm sure as hell not calling it 'cured', I think mutinously.

I mean, Marie does, but no one else. I wonder how they have explained my absence for the last few days. More than that, though, it's kinda nice that no one knows, so that I can pretend things are normal for a while. As much as Mystique's statement was reassuring, I don't really know if she's really sure.

The second the door closed behind me, doubts began clamouring in my mind, quietly at first then more and more insistent.

He stands up suddenly, smiling sweetly. "All done. Can you walk or shall I carry you?" I hear a snort of laughter, and I punch him in the arm. "Fine, let's go," I mutter. Peter pushes open the door and a wall of frigid air hits me, causing a spontaneous re-evaluation of my sanity. I must be nuts, to let myself be talked into these things.

There are already a couple small kids and parents, but it's a slow day. Bobby steps out, and then speeds up 'til he's practically flying. I envy him a bit, because he looks so much more in his element out here, (no shit, Johnny) and much more graceful than he is on nice, solid ground. Kitty practically bounds onto the ice and skates furiously to catch him, and then they race for a lap or two. Peter skates more slowly, but he looks like a professional (with a stick rammed up his ass), and even Marie and Jubilee step onto the ice, holding each other up and laughing. This means that I have to go out.

I do, and the ice almost falls out from under me. Flailing, I grab the boards and cling for dear life. Righting myself, I wobble along the ice, glowering

Then some little bastard whizzes by and collides with me, though Bobby will claim later, trying his best to keep a straight face, that he barely touched me. Either way, I topple like a domino. I hear someone scratch to a halt next to me and I continue my string of muttered obscenities. "-cking son of a whore, nasty little f-"

"Hey, there are kids present. Here, I'll help you up," Bobby offers, pulling me upright anyways without my consent. I marvel at his balance even as I sulk, trying to restore my wounded pride. "Right, I'm going home," I declare. "This is enough ice and cold for a fucking lifetime."

"Aw, that's mean." I scoff. "Here," he continues, taking my forearms and turning around to skate along backwards, towing me along, "now push out to the sides instead of trying to walk forward." I glare uncooperatively. "Well at least this time you can't melt the rink," he murmurs to me. Incensed, I reply, "The official story was a heater malfunction, and I stick to that."

"Really. So it was just coincidence that it happened right after you fell over and that kid laughed at you."

Smirking now, I repeat, "I stick to the official version of events." We're still moving, far faster than I'd be comfortable with normally, and he's still got his hands on my arm. I hadn't noticed either, but then I realize some little kid's mother is looking at us, horrified. The joys of small town America are countless, it appears.

Well, screw you lady. I turn away and make an attempt to do as he says, despite the stupidity inherent to the idea of pushing sideways to move forward. To my surprise, and his as well, I find myself moving forward on my own steam. Unfortunately, I was already moving quick-ish, and this accelerates me well into the area that I call 'terminal velocity.' This is because my lovely forward motion has suddenly terminated, and I find myself flying forward and ice-ward.

Luckily, there is a cushion between me and the ice. Namely, Bobby. Sprawled out on top of him, I look down and turn his earlier sweet smile against him. "Yeah, skating is great Bobby." I sit there for a minute, savouring, then scramble awkwardly to my feet. He stands as well, rubbing his chest and looking at me resentfully.

"Jesus, how many coats are you wearing? I think you crushed my ribs." Kitty chooses this moment to glide to a halt next to us, asking him amusedly, "Are you alright?"

"Fine," he mutters, not meeting her eyes. I wonder why, then notice the smile that she is trying desperately to banish from her face. I guess we weren't exactly being subtle there. I see her forming a remark and then Marie comes to his rescue, deciding, "That's enough skating, thank you. I want the hot chocolate you promised me now." He grins gratefully at her and shoots off down the ice, abandoning me to the tender mercies of Kitty.

An evil grin eclipses her features and I fear for my sanity. She begins asking prying questions, all of which I refuse to answer and most of which I tune out for the sake of my mental health. I glide, or rather wobble, slowly but determinedly towards the exit. Finally reaching it, I almost hear a distant chorus of hallelujah.

Yanking my skates off gratefully, I pull on normal shoes and hand the demonic, bladed footwear back to the attendant, who gives me a funny look. Thinking that this is an 'Oh my god, they're both guys' thing, I'm tempted to give him the finger but settle for a leer, which makes him look away hurriedly.

Huh.

Judging by the colour he just turned, it appears that I misinterpreted the look. Oops, I think unrepentantly.

Bobby returns, bearing a tray full of hot chocolates and begins handing them out. I grip mine gratefully, just letting it warm my fingers for a moment. Then I drink a few hot mouthfuls and feel the heat spread until I feel like a normal human being again. Well, sort of. Suddenly, and rather out of the blue, I feel an arm being flung across my shoulders. This is, of course, Bobby being an idiot. Again.

I look over at him and then follow the path of his uncharacteristic glare back to poor harassed attendant-guy, who is modelling yet another unusual facial colour. Of course. I elbow Bobby, suddenly very conscious of eyes on us. He flashes me the blithe, assured smile of someone who's never been unwanted in his life, but removes the arm anyways.

I'm struck by a sense of unreality, and blurt out unthinkingly, "Why is everything so… normal again?"

"What do you mean?" Jubilee asks me curiously. Cursing my own, idiotic impulsiveness, I bullshit furiously. "Well, everything. I mean, we were halfway to an all-out war with humanity a few months ago, and now I'm ice skating. What the fuck happened between then and now that made everything alright?"

There is silence for a minute and then Jubilee says, quietly, "Well, strictly speaking, _you_ were on the verge of all out war, with us as well as them. And what I think we are seeing here is basic, and I use this term lightly, human nature. The crisis is averted, the," she uses air quotes here, for which I am grateful, "'bad guys' lost. All is, in theory, well. In normal circumstances we would see a lot more discrimination against the losing party, but there were mutants on the winning side as well; hell, we won the fight for them. And of course we've shown, quite convincingly I think, why it's a bad idea to provoke mutants as a community."

The silence that follows has a slightly more shocked flavour to it. "What? It makes sense to me," Jubilee protests defensively.

"No, no. You're right," Marie says placatingly, "it's just that you were so… serious, and normally you're... not. "

"Oh, yeah. Well, I had been thinking about the same thing," she glances sidelong at me, though I almost miss it. I wonder suddenly whether the half-hearted flirting I engaged in with her was such a great idea. It seemed like it at the time, what with Bobby and Marie hanging off of each other, and Kitty and Peter so being so glaringly obvious, but now it just seems cruel, considering I was never going to carry through.

Shit, now is not the time for me to finally grow a conscience. Way too late to do anything useful, I expect it'd just cause me unnecessary guilt at this point.

Bobby's looking at me again, in that seeing-straight-through-you kind of way, and why did he pick today to become perceptive?

I sigh and drop my head back against the wall behind me, pushing everything in my mind down and away, clearing space. For what, I don't know. I just feel better either, when it's quiet and I'm left alone, or when I'm truly in the centre of things, able to act without conscious consideration, to truly just be. I can't stand this middle ground that most people seem content to spend their entire lives in.

I look around me and think, pessimistically, that I've still got it. All it takes is a few sentences from me and a whole group of people are reduced to silence. Usually, it's pissed off silence, although I can't really tell in this case. This is a bit of a surprise to me. I mean, I had only lived with most of these people for three or four years. That is definitely a record, for staying in one place that wasn't my home. Staying there hardly counts. And here it turns out that I barely know them anyways. Probably this shouldn't surprise me at all.

"Hey, can we go back now?" I break the pensive silence, and resist the urge to address my question to Bobby only, like some kind of nervous, timid girlfriend. "Uh, yeah. Anyone have anywhere else to go, before we go back to the mansion?" A chorus of mumbled 'no's follows and we are on our way.

I rented skates, as did Marie and Jubilee. The others toss their skates into the back of the X-Men equivalent of a soccer mom-mobile. This time Marie elects to drive ('so that you don't get lost again, Bobby') and Kitty sits in the front with her. Jubilee sits behind them, and I squeeze past them to sit in the back row. Bobby glances around and then quickly follows me into the back, scooting onto the middle seat beside me and Peter wedges himself into the seat beside Jubilee.

I find the whole outing so juvenile suddenly as I watch Peter, who wouldn't look out of place in some weightlifting competition, smile embarrassedly at Kitty, who has just 'accidentally' phased herself through her own seat and onto his lap. Whoops.

I glare out of the window to my side and watch the city drift past. Marie drives so slowly sometimes that we could probably drive somewhere and back in the time it takes her to make one trip. I don't really mind.

My eyelids are drooping, and I feel myself teetering precariously on the edge between sleep and waking, when I feel someone lean against me, gently. He could be drifting to sleep and leaning over in the process, but I can see his eyes, half-closed though they are, and the… challenge, almost, flickering in them. Then he bumps his thigh sideways into mine, and I am suddenly not at all asleep. I can feel where he is touching me, like paths of flame. Somehow during all this covert manoeuvring, his hand has landed near mine. The urge to lace fingers together has almost overcome my pride, which is telling me, vehemently, in loud and inventive cuss-words, that this is a spectacularly soppy, girlish move. However, pride is no match for a brain that is almost completely overrun by hormones, and my fingers already almost itch to touch him.

I slide my own too cold hand over top of his and think that it's a sad state of affairs when I can steal heat from the hands of an ice mutant.

I gaze unseeingly out the window. This might be to hide the faint look of contentment that I feel on my face, not exactly a smile but certainly not a frown either. I rest my forehead against the cool glass, not thinking. I feel his hand tighten on mine and then release, and I squeeze back, now deliberately thinking nothing. I'm trying to preserve the moment, capture it like a Polaroid for the mind.

It doesn't last as long as I'd like it to (forever, or over in one brilliant, blinding instant), and presently I hear hushed whispers ahead of me, a muffled giggle. I turn to the front in time to see Kitty wrenching herself back into her seat. It looks as though she was craning around in her seat to peer backwards. Bobby hasn't noticed, as he's apparently asleep (for real this time), his fingers going slack against mine. I quietly disengage my hand and shift in my seat, seeking the fabled and elusive comfortable spot that all car seats are supposed to possess. I've never found one.

Jubilee's quiet, hesitating voice presents itself to my mind almost without my ears registering it. She is turned halfway to facing me, not exactly meeting my eyes. "So are you and Bobby…" she trails off delicately. I take pity on her, muttering "Yeah, I guess," instead of letting her squirm like I would have most people. I narrow my eyes and look at her challengingly. "Is that a problem?"

She turns to face me, and smiles softly. "It's a bit cute, actually. And weird, of course. Can't forget the weirdness of it all. Is this a secret, or am I just unobservant?"

"A bit of both," I reply and despite myself I find that I am smiling back. This causes her grin to widen. Then I see what must be a spark jump to her, and the windshield wipers turn on in the front. She turns red and I laugh, low and quiet. She whips around to face forward just before Marie calls back to ask what's going on. I'm still laughing.

A little while later, she whispers back, not meeting my eyes again, "I'm glad you're back. Even if I can't…" she stops, looking for the right words, then drops it altogether. "Well, it's good that you're here again. With us." Her cheeks flush to a vibrant pink, and she sits forward again.

I don't know what I'm supposed to say to that, or whether I'm supposed to say anything at all. But she was right, about the question I had asked earlier, though she answered it on a bigger scale. What's going on with the people around me, that makes it alright that I'm… well, that I'm here, is human nature. The easiest thing to do, the path of least resistance, is pretending that things are the way they used to be, and ignoring me if that doesn't work. Hell, that _is_ the way things used to be.

Just shut your eyes, plug your ears, whistle loudly and pretend everything is all good. The same attitude that used to drive me absolutely crazy, used to make me furious, is now the one thing making my life liveable. Another classic example of grade-A irony.

I hate irony.

/\/\/\

So. Yeah. Here it is. Um, sorry for the wait? *hides* Honestly though, I re-wrote this a few times, and it didn't come out the way I wanted it to. I'm still not entirely satisfied, but it has been way too long (three months!) to not post anything. So here it is.

Colvine


	27. Chapter 27

**Disclaimer**: Not mine.

**And Then There Were Two**

Marie/Rogue

I sift through the personalities that I have lingering in my head, looking for Logan. See, when I touch people, I take their life, their soul. I think of these personalities as, I guess, shades of these people, bits they left behind. I linger for a minute on Alex, smiling. I haven't spoken to him since… Well, whatever. I shake my head slightly, and go back to rummaging.

I finally I find what I was looking for, by following the scent it seems to trail. It's like pine or, I don't know, cedar trees, and a little bit smoky, like cigarettes(big surprise). There's something else, but it's hard to describe. Very distinctive though, whatever it is.

I can't talk to them, or at least it isn't talking as you would normally understand it. For all intents and purposes, I _am_ them.

Well, no, that's not right. It's closer to putting on a mask, but a mask that makes you behave a little bit like the person who the mask is supposed to be.

So it's really hard to be unsympathetic to someone once I've, once I've tried them on. That's probably why I don't do this very often. I mean, John, Bobby, even Alex, there was stuff I needed to know, and I am (or was) kind of close to them already. But I've never even gone near the red, metallic shade, for fear of what I might hear, or believe, or what I might become. He was very persuasive, if you didn't notice the crazy in his eyes.

I've just noticed this, but I have a lot of guys in my head. It's practically a catalogue, of the people I can't have (or don't want, in some cases), and all of them male. It's probably a metaphor for something, to do with human nature (and sex, because human nature seems to have a lot to do with sex), but I can't figure it out.

I take a deep breath, empty my mind, and plunge into the Logan-mask. I wouldn't normally do this, but I'm worried about him. He's being weird, I don't know what's going on, and I have a bad feeling. Even with all of that, this feels like trespassing, invading something private.

This won't work if I'm thinking Marie thoughts, I remind myself. I try to relax, let his personality wash over and around mine. Then I feed _him/me_ all that I've noticed or observed about _him/me_ for the last few weeks, then let _him/me_ go where _he/I_ will. This moment is always the hardest, when I am trying to be both him and myself. It's impossible, of course, and I am soon submerged.

* * *

I try to remember what I'm doing, why I feel like I have a mission to accomplish. Then the feeling passes, and I wonder why I feel so… wrong, and why my eyes are closed, –_keep them shut_- then I decide to leave them shut.

I let my mind wander, let it pass over Jean and feel the choking wave of depression then push that away, feeling, for some reason, dissatisfied. My thoughts bump against the little pyromaniac and Iceman, weird but not really surprising, –_hahaha_- and I feel a strange compulsion to laugh, which quickly disappears. I drift past Rogue –_not Marie? Shit, stop thinking as me, it'll screw us up!_ - have a freaky moment and shake that off. I notice again the nagging wrongness of my body, which feels like entirely someone else –_if only you_ _knew. Don't worry about that, it'll pass_- but I figure it'll pass (everything does) so why worry about it?

Resuming the mental drifting, I bounce momentarily off the thought of the future, think that it isn't what we're looking for, touch Storm, Xavier, Magneto and then hit on Mystique. That strikes us as the jackpot.

Why am I thinking in plural, why won't my eyes open, what's wrong with my eyes, what's happe- _shh. Relax. We're just fine. Time to go, we think-_

* * *

We take a deep breath, open my eyes and become me, become I, singular, Marie.

I really don't like doing that. It always leaves me thinking in plurals, and I can never look at the people afterwards without this feeling that I should _be_ them. It's really unsettling.

On the upside, I'm getting a lot better at steering thoughts. When I first fell into the Alex mask, (which was accidental, by the way; I was nearly asleep andthinking of him and feeling pathetic, and then holy shit, I was him) I learned a lot of things about him, and us, and other people, that I never wanted to know. I was terrified, because I was losing myself – that is, I was losing Marie. Then he opened our eyes, and that shocked him back into me.

This really screws with my pronouns, when it happens. I'm me and then I'm her, then him and then, somehow, us. It really gives me a migraine.

What was I looking for again? Hell, what did I find?

Right. Mystique. Why would Mystique be the one making him act so weird?

Ah, screw it, this is none of my business. I was scared that it was something big, because if it was I probably would have interfered, although I can't imagine I would have been of much use. Remember, none of your business Marie.

* * *

I shouldn't have come, but have I ever been able to say no to him? Of course not.

Well, I'm here, so I might as well enjoy myself. This attitude lasts until my fingers, already going a bit numb, catch for the third time as I try to lace the worn hockey skates. "Alright, screw this. These things are evil. I'll just watch you guys," I cry, exasperated. But that won't do, will it?

"Aw come on," Bobby says to me, beseechingly, "we've come all this way, you have to skate with us!" I sigh, tell myself that he is as earnest in this as in anything else, that he isn't trying to mess with my head. "Fine. But," trying to feel like less of a push-over, "you're buying me hot chocolate afterwards." It doesn't work. I try to drop the self pity and lace the damn skates, and that does work.

I see John about to form another complaint, and Bobby smirks, and then leans down to tie his skates for him. I see John turn red and look away, and quickly look down at my feet. I glare down furiously, wishing I wasn't here. Suddenly I'm struck by a remembrance of how it felt when I was… wearing him, and I feel a bit less angry. That amount of angst in one person can not be healthy, and at the very least I think they might be good for one another.

I guess Bobby must be done, because he's helping John up, saying as he does, "All done. Can you walk, or shall I carry you?" I have to laugh because I think I might cry otherwise. I know that jealousy is bad, and that they're making each other happy, I can see it in Bobby's eyes and in the fact that John actually smiles instead of smirking sometimes, and I know also that John needs a distraction or he'll go crazy.

But despite all this, I still look at Bobby sometimes, and he makes my knees weak and my head light and I want, so badly, to be able to reach out and touch him, just once. No, that's a lie. If I did it once, I'd never be able to stop, like an addict. I'm almost grateful for the mutation sometimes, because it gives me both reason and motivation to keep me from doing what I want to do, what I know I shouldn't want to do.

I know, also, that he doesn't want the same thing. He wants me to be happy and all that, but he isn't interested in being happy with me. That was one time that I was glad to have the masks, to show me what he meant. So when I talked to him, I understood, sort of. I couldn't even hate him. Every once in a while I regret that. I'm still sitting on the bench, staring down at nothing with tears gathering in my eyes. I should move.

A gloved hand falls onto my shoulder and I look up to see Jubilee smiling sadly at me. "You see it too, then?" She doesn't specify, but I remember the way she used to look at John, usually because I couldn't guess why she would bother. But it looked kind of perfect for a while, then; me and Bobby, Kitty and Peter, and then John and Jubilee thrown together for a lack of alternatives.

"Yeah, I see it too," and I smile lopsidedly at her. "Ironically, I think they're better for each other than we could be." She laughs weakly.

"I should feel angry, shouldn't I? At the very least I should feel as though they are… wrong or something. Why don't I?" She sounds a little bit desperate, this time. I can sympathise.

"I don't know, Jubes. I should feel it, too, but I don't either. I feel sad, desperately sad, but I can't manage to feel angry. You know?" She sighs, "I know. Let's go, before they notice that we're not there." The pair of us step gingerly out onto the ice, holding one another up and giggling despite ourselves. We just move for a while, and then Jubilee asks me, "Is there… Is John alright? It's just, he seems different somehow."

I glance over at him, then look back and say, "I shouldn't be telling you this. Keep it to yourself, ok?" She nods and I continue, "You remember Ms. Clayton? Mystique. She snuck in, and stabbed John some… cure-dart thing. Or something like that, I'm fuzzy on the details."

Her eyes go wide and her grip on my arm tightens. "That's why he wasn't here, these last few days." I nod. "Is Mystique… back, then?" I understand her apprehension. Mystique's power was one of the more unnerving ones, making me feel I could never completely trust someone.

"No, thankfully. She just made up some sort of identity, that's all. Still completely human, and pissed off about it."

"Oh. Is he alright, though?"

"I don't know, honestly." I look over again and snicker, because he appears to have collapsed. Bobby glides over, makes some sort of remark and helps him back up again. John plants himself obstinately, and Bobby says something that makes him try to suppress a grin. Then John starts moving forward, unintentionally from the look on his face. I suddenly feel all the jealousy that I've been avoiding 'til now grab hold of me, because they're still touching, and I can't. I can't and I want to, so much that it's eating away at me inside.

I wouldn't have thought, before this happened, that not being able to touch other people would be this important. I get it now, though. It feels like there is this extra dimension, extra sensation that I don't ever get to participate in, that everyone around me takes for granted. I never thought that the red flesh on someone's cheeks or the soft skin on the hands would be enticing for any other reason than regular attraction, but now I want to be able to brush my fingers across it, just to feel someone else, feel that they are alive and warm and soft, the same as me.

I remember Bobby said to me once that I wouldn't hurt him. He was wrong then, but it turns out he's right this time, he's unscathed and my chest hurts and I can't breathe properly. This hurts. It's like an ache in my heart, a hole in my chest, and I can't stand it.

I want to go home. God, I want to go _home_. I want to see my mom, I want to sleep in my old bed, I want to stay in my old room, I want someone to _hold_ me. Is that so much to ask?

Apparently it is. Jubilee looks at me and then says, "Hey, you don't have to stay if you don't want to. Why don't you go get that hot chocolate of yours? Or, more accurately, go claim it from Bobby. It looks like he could do with some rescuing right now," she snickers. I wonder why and then look around for him. I see Kitty skating up to them with an evil looking grin, and decide to leave him to her tender mercies for a minute before I go bail him out.

He smiles at me, gratefully and as though we're sharing a secret and my mind goes blank for a minute. I wish I wouldn't react this way. I wish I was immune to him.

We go, peel off skates, bemoan the state of feet and blisters, and drink hot chocolate. John asks a strange question and Jubilee gives an even stranger answer, looking at him with big, sad eyes and I wish I had seen this, wish I hadn't been so self-absorbed that I couldn't notice something so glaringly obvious.

Bobby glares over my shoulder at someone and throws an arm possessively over John's shoulder. I swallow another sudden flare of jealousy with difficulty, wondering what the hell is wrong with me. It must be so pitiful, so plain, so pathetic (that's alliteration, I think in a corner of my mind) that I'm still hung up on him. Why can't I get over him? Screw that, why _won't_ I get over him?

I will. I have to; I'll drive myself crazy otherwise.

I need to be doing something, so when we head towards the car, I offer to drive. This is good, because it will take up all of my attention – I'm a bit nervous behind the wheel. It's smooth sailing for a while and then the windshield wipers randomly turn on and scare the shit out of me. I jump half-way out of my skin.

I flip them off and turn around to look at Jubilee, who smiles back apologetically, bright red. Looking past her (briefly, before I whip back around to watch the road) I see John, looking amused and slightly bewildered.

Some time goes by, then a random, idiotic traffic light appears on a stretch of otherwise uninterrupted highway. I mean, there's a gas station, but are the lights really necessary? I think not. Anyways, I pull over into the station and ask if anyone wants anything, as I have been overpowered by a sudden bout of the munchies.

Bobby starts, looks around blearily then grins. "Oh, it's a good thing we aren't lost or anything, just driving ten times slower than the average sloth. You might have to pick up a razor in there," he continues, rubbing his chin speculatively, "I think I might just grow an impressive beard by the time we get back, otherwise. Or maybe I could just let it grow." He turns to John and smiles winningly. "How would I look with a beard, do you think?"

John looks, cocks an eyebrow and hides his smile behind a smirk. "Like an idiot." I snort, and Bobby suddenly grins, saying something to John that is too low for me to hear. I feel like an intruder and walk towards the building, as the urge for chocolate becomes a lot stronger. Jubilee stays in the car, as does Peter, and Kitty gets up to stretch her legs or buy something.

I grab a Mars bar, then a few more for good measure, and go to pay. The guy behind the counter looks up from the book he's reading underneath the counter and smiles at me. He's kind of cute so I smile back, and immediately feel guilty for it. There is no way I can follow through with whatever the smiles suggest, so this is acting under false pretences, like those creeps who take off their wedding rings and go into clubs. Except way worse, because I could be fatal.

Hah, fatal attraction.

Okay, not funny.

I try to pay without meeting his eyes, then make the mistake of looking up when he hands me the change. They're a very pretty, grey-green colour, and I find myself looking for too long, he glances up and meets my eyes, and before I can stop myself, I start talking. "I can't imagine many people come through here, do they?"

"Not really. My manager," he nods towards the back office, "doesn't want us watching T.V. in here, in case we miss someone robbing the place I guess," he laughs, and I do the same. "So I've become really well-read, because I seem to finish one of these," this time he holds up the thin paperback he had been reading, "in a shift or two." The voice of reason inside my head tells me to leave politely now, and I, on a heady rush of hormones, ignore it.

"What do you read?" I feel like wincing, that sounds like such an inane question, but he smiles at me anyways, leaning slightly forward and resting an elbow on the counter. "Honestly, I just read anything that looks interesting. The novel of the hour is Robinson Crusoe."

I have absolutely no interest in this, I think. "Oh, what's it about?" I say. Crap.

"Well, the main character is stranded on a deserted island, and he tries to survive and escape." I struggle to get my mouth and my brain onto the same wavelength. "That sounds…" I hesitate, and then continue with an apologetic smile, "boring, actually." Victory! Now if only I could quit grinning like an idiot.

"Yeah, it kind of is." Oh, he just had to agree with me, make things that much more difficult. Before I get a chance to listen to my rational mind, he asks me, "Do you live around here?"

"Um, yes, I do." I look down. This place is maybe twenty minutes away from the mansion; he'll know what it means if I tell him the truth. I should, but…

I don't want to.

"I go to school at Xavier's." I said it anyways. It could almost be some sort of private school, instead of what is really is, the way I said it. I risk a glance at his face again. It's unnaturally blank, like a mask or a wax model.

"So… you're a mutant?" The voice, too, is carefully vacant. "Yeah, I am." He doesn't say anything, and I wait, and then turn to leave. I've almost reached the door, feeling far more disappointed than I have any right to. Then his voice stops me, and I half turn. "Hey, wait. What's your name?"

"Rogue." I answer him without thinking, and then wonder why I said it. Rogue. That name has caused me no end of trouble. But, unnervingly, it feels like my… real name, sometimes.

"Aaron." I look at him, and reply, too seriously, "It was nice meeting you, Aaron," and walk out.

I hate the mutation sometimes, for little things.

It's one hell of a conversation-killer, for one thing.

I slide into the driver's seat without meeting anyone's eyes and wait for Kitty to return from the store. When she does, I ignore her attempts to catch my eye, and drive home faster than usual. I don't want to deal with people anymore today.

However, things aren't that easy. When we get back, I make it as far as the kitchen before Kitty asks me what's wrong. I would have liked to just tell her to bug off, but it isn't really her fault. So I sigh, and I tell her about Aaron (although she's nosy enough that she's probably already seen a lot of the story firsthand), whose name I already like, and how unfair it is, and I'm alarmed to find myself near tears.

She makes the appropriate sympathetic noises, pats my arm reassuringly, and tells me, "For what it's worth, I think he liked you. When I was trying to buy something, it took him three tries to enter the right code, and he kept looking out the window. Poor service almost always means infatuation." This jerks some laughter out of me, and I offer her a watery smile. "Hah. Thanks."

"Anytime." She hugs me, and then I retreat to my room.

I sit on the bed, brushing a pair of sweats out of the way absently. I stare at the wall opposite me and grab a handful of bedding in each fist, and close my eyes. My arms are shaking, I'm clenching my fists around the blankets so hard. I won't cry over him, I've barely met him, he's probably a geek or something, I will not cry over him!

Apparently I will. Just one or two teardrops escape from my squeezed eyelids, leaving wet trails in their wake. I sniff, thinking that this is probably more to do with a feeling of general hopelessness than it is to do with Aaron's suddenly closed face as soon as I mentioned a mutation. A teardrop falls on my lip and rolls into my mouth, and I find myself grateful for the distraction.

It's not fair, but when is life ever fair?

* * *

Right before exams is not a good time to resume posting updates, I now realize. Kind of a depressing way to end the chapter, but there you go. Although my muse is part-time and quite unreliable, I will press on with the story. I always love input -blatantly obvious hint-, because my ending is still sketchy and the length of the story keeps fluctuating.

Colvine


	28. Chapter 28

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**And Then There Were Two**

Logan/Wolverine

I sigh, pace around the room. Once, twice. Then stop, look around in irritation, pace some more.

I repeat this cycle a few times, then drop my head into my hands, rubbing my temples and wonder just what the hell is driving me to distraction like this. No, that's not true; I know exactly what the problem is. Who the problem is. But my preoccupation with her is bad. Unhealthy. To be avoided at all costs. Well, most costs, anyways.

I walk down the halls, barely noticing the various children and teens that move out of my way. It's weird, that this place could be fuller than ever and still so damnably empty. I keep turning around and expecting to see a flash of red hair or ugly pink visor, expecting to hear a spectral, disembodied voice, offering opinions and comments before vanishing again.

Living in fucking limbo, that's what I'm doing. I've lost the need to know who I am, where I've come from, and I have nothing to replace the sense of purpose, however vague it may have been. No ambitious goals, no real desire for revenge, not even a person to fill the gaping whole where I used to have that itching need to _know_. Nothing.

Well, there is the equally itchy and unhealthy fascination with a dangerous and possibly unhinged woman, with questionable morals.

I do seem to like them dangerous and potentially unhinged, don't I? No, that's not really fair. How was I supposed to know that Jean was… what she was?

Ah, fuck.

I want to be away from small, optimistic children, and I really want to be drunk. Like, falling-down drunk. When was the last time I was properly pissed, anyways?

Too long. Definitely, too long ago.

/\/\/\

I wake up, rub the palms of my hands against my eyes and groan. I drank last night, way too much, and my problems are still here this morning. I hate how that works.

This isn't fair. I know that I sound like an angsting teenager when I say that, but, well, fuck it. They must be contagious. It isn't fair that I loved her, and lost her (killed her, I didn't just lose her I killed her, she's gone), and now, the only other person to make me look up and take interest is goddamn Mystique. Who the hell thought that was a good idea, I wonder? There is some god, somewhere, and it is not smiling on me at all.

Fuck, maybe I just have a thing for redheads.

Anything is better than the thought that I sort of liked her when she was alluring, confident and mysterious, instead of broken like she seems to be now. Certainly it is better than considering what it means that I want to put her back together.

I want to do something. I need to be doing something. If I were smart, I would be a hundred miles away from this place, away from the temptation. But I'm not, and I'm halfway to her room.

"Logan." But, from the sound of Ororo's voice, I'm not likely to get any closer. "Yeah?"

"What are you doing?" I try not to look guilty. I don't have any reason to feel guilty, I tell myself, but she has a talent for making me feel it anyways. "I need to see Mystique."

"Oh," she says the look on her face inscrutable. "Well, behave yourself. I'm going to go pick Kurt up."

"Right, well," I say before realizing what she has just said. "What? But he can just do his 'poof!' thing and be right here! He's already been here, right?" She just smiles. "Yes. He could simply 'poof!' himself here. But he has asked me to come and drive with him instead." I laugh.

"Oh. The hell's he been doing, anyways?"

"I don't know. All he said is that it was personal, and must be done." I mentally add the accent, and can imagine him saying something like that. "Right," I grunt noncommittally, and we both keep walking. It irritates me a bit that I couldn't be interested in her instead. That would make my life so much easier; she isn't crazy, unbalanced, broken, or spoken for as far as I know. But that would be too easy, wouldn't it?

I open the door to the room she's in, quietly, and look around. It's almost completely undisturbed, as though she isn't there at all. She's sitting on the bed, her back pressed into the corner, legs pulled up to her chest. She looks at me, wide-eyed and startled, when I enter the room. I feel something strange and indescribable when I see her – it isn't right. She should be in total control, or at the very least look and act like she is. I just feel like vulnerable looks wrong on her, somehow.

"Mystique," I say, settling into the chair across from the bed, furthest from her. She looks at me impassively, but the curious tilt of her head betrays her interest. "It's Raven now, as I'm sure you can see." I take in her new appearance properly, as I hadn't bothered to do before now. Her hair, while still red, is now duller, less shocking. The same has happened with her eyes, and of course the alarming blue skin now looks soft and white.

In fact, she would be quite attractive this way. Except whenever I look at her I think about how much more... whole she would be with blue skin and bright yellow eyes and her strange, almost musical voice. "Good point," I say, belatedly.

I sit there, in silence, for the longest time. I don't say anything, don't even look at her, and she returns the favour (mostly; sometimes I can feel her eyes on me). I'm more relaxed in her presence than I am anywhere else, with anyone else, which is weird. Hell, it's bordering on suicidal. I look up at her, and she has a book cradled in her lap (I wonder where it came from?), but she's looking at me with her head tipped to the side again I wonder, not for the first time, just what I think I'm doing here. Then I realize, what I am doing is absolutely nothing.

I stand, but then I can't decide if I want to leave or step forward and commit myself to whatever this is. It feels like that one step forward would seal my fate, set this one course of action in stone.

I don't think that I'm quite up for that right now, so instead I turn around and walk out, without a word.

/\/\/\

I keep going back, almost every day for about two weeks. Sometimes it's complete silence, and sometimes we talk. We talk about the past mostly, skirting around anything in the last few years. The present is dangerous territory.

I never take that step. I'm always sitting in the chair by the door, and she is always curled on her bed. I wonder how much time she spends there, since I turn up at different times in the day.

I stand up, hovering once more on the invisible line that I have drawn. I turn to leave, but her voice (the wrong voice) stops me. "What exactly are you doing here?" I think about it for a minute. I don't know what to say.

So instead I step over my imaginary line.

Maybe she senses the significance of it, maybe not. Either way, she smiles that Mystique smile that says I know what you're thinking and I know what you're feeling and I have you right where I want you. It looks strange, out of place on this face, but so very right. I walk forward as she stands, and we meet halfway, standing close but not touching. I loom over her, which would make most people back away. Instead, she stares challengingly.

I growl, and her grin gets wider. Frustrated, I erase the grin. With my mouth. Later, I may decide that this was a bad idea. Right now, though, I let the deep, pleasant warmth settle along my spine and pull my arms around her waist. I feel her hands (soft and smooth, and there's something not-quite-right about them) wander across the sides of my face, down my neck, along my shoulders.

Then she shoves, hard, and I'm lying lengthwise on the bed with Mystique/Raven crouched above me. The look in her eyes is predatory and it may say something unfortunate about my mental health but I think that she looks... better, more natural like this. She laughs, low, harsh and breathless, and then her mouth descends again, and I reach up to pull her closer. She splays her fingers along my chest, surprisingly gentle, and I shudder.

This feels familiar.

I run my hands along the inside of her shirt, and feel the rough raised edges of old scars. I rub the pad of my thumb along one of the long, sweeping curves and she hisses into my mouth (which is a sensation which demands repetition) and digs her nails into the fabric at my shoulders.

Then I sit up and shift her off of me. "This isn't going to work," I say by way of explanation, my voice hoarse.

"What, again?" Her voice is brittle with fake levity and real hurt (where the hell did that come from?). "Well," I say, gesturing vaguely at the ceiling, "there are security cameras in this room, and I don't feel like giving anyone that kind of show just now. But I'll be back."

She looks at me, eyes narrow and intent. "What do you want with me?"

I don't meet her eyes. "I don't know."

/\/\/\

I'm walking through the halls, late at night, smoking. It's the only time I can smoke inside without getting looks.

I approach the dining room and see warm light spilling forth from it. Curious (who would be up this late other than me, and what are they doing?), I creep up to the threshold and look in. Ororo and Kurt are sitting at the long table drinking something from steaming mugs. I back away as quietly as I can and leave them to whatever they're doing.

My glance didn't last, but it was long enough to freeze a tableau of sorts in my head. Kurt is talking animatedly, his mug forgotten on the table. Ororo is looking at him, captivated or fascinated, and nursing the steaming cup in both hands. I caught a glimpse of a bright blue tail, coiling around her ankle, retreating and returning. And they looked… peaceful. I haven't seen her looking anything but harried, overworked or haunted in too long, so I guess I'm grateful for this distraction (and completely willing to gut the blue man should he mistreat her).

It also compounds my feeling of loneliness. I want something to hold on to. Someone. I can't say anyone, because that obviously isn't true.

I resume wandering, more agitatedly this time. I growl under my breath. I clench my fists, extending and retracting the claws one by one. I walk faster and faster, the only noise in an otherwise silent building. I suddenly feel full of restless, pent up energy.

I leave the building, taking harsh, deep breaths of the cool night air. I stop, stand stock still for a moment. Then, without a warning, I am running. I don't know why, or where. I just need to _move_.

Finally, I stop and sit down in the cool, soft grass. I stare up at the night sky, surprisingly clear tonight. People think that we go up there when they die, but right now, tonight, I can't help but feel that it is nothing but emptiness, that death is just that; death. I wonder sometimes when exactly I am going to die. I'm pretty damned old already, and feeling the emptiness, the aloneness, pretty strongly.

Why is it that the only comfort I can seem to find in the gaping hole Jean left in me is _her_?

/\/\/\

Wow. I suck. Sorry to anyone who is still reading for taking so long. I'm not going to make any more promises about when things get finished, although I still swear that I will end it eventually. Also, I'm considering upping the rating. Would that bother anyone a whole lot?

Colvine.


	29. Chapter 29

**Disclaimer- **I own nothing.

**And Then There Were Two**

Iceman/Bobby

It seems that one of us is going to be moving out sometime soon. Two days ago John got to leave the infirmary, and yesterday Storm came by. She smiled, and said, "You two are old enough that you can have separate rooms by now, I think. So I'll set up another room, and one of you can move out." She looked at us both, daring someone to argue. I just smiled ruefully and nodded. John didn't seem to react at all.

So now I'm helping haul all his shit into another room, two doors over from this one. He's throwing his clothes into a box haphazardly and grumbling about being put to the trouble of cleaning his room. I want to tell him that this hardly counts as cleaning, but I just laugh. "Did you really expect anything else, after she walked in on us?" Apparently he had forgotten about that, because I see a blush creeping up the back of his neck.

"Oh. Right. Well, this is still bullshit," he mutters stubbornly.

"Sure. Hey, what d'you want me to do with all these books?" I'm not really exaggerating, about 'all the books,' either. He doesn't seem to have much… stuff (not much music, video games, technology, not even all that many clothes), but there are a lot of books on his side of the invisible line that we crew across the room when we first moved in.

In fact, it wasn't invisible at first. I had dropped my sweater on the floor on what he saw as his side, and he flipped a shit. Quietly. Just burned a line down the middle of the floor and looked at me, then kicked the sweater over the line very deliberately.

"Uh, let me get them. Can you take this over?" I return to the present with a faint smile and take the box from him. Walking down the hall, I'm almost in the door before I'm intercepted. Peter (whose room happens to be between John's and mine, poor bastard) walks out of his room and gives me a bemused look. I grin at him and say, "John's moving out."

His brows come together and he frowns, and I realize what that probably sounds like. "Oh, no! Not, like, leaving the mansion, moving out. Just, being kicked out of the room." I hope he doesn't ask me why, because I'm not sure how tolerant he is about the whole, gay thing and I don't want to have to say it. But he just sort of nods, so I guess that's alright. I go into the room (exactly the same as mine), dump the box of shirts and stuff next to the dresser that I know will never be used.

I wander back to the room to find Kitty perched on top of a box and chattering to John, who looks as though he's trying very hard to tune her out and not really succeeding. Then she sees me, and grins slightly manically. "Hey! So one of you is being kicked out? Why? Oh, is it 'cause dear Storm knows about," she grins and waggles her eyebrows, looking spectacularly pleased with herself, "you two?"

I sigh. "Yes Kitty, it is because she knows about us. And now I'm going to have to ask you to leave so we can make out. Sloppily." I grin at her, and she stares for a minute. Then she starts laughing so hard she nearly falls off of the box. "Alright, I'm gone," she chirps, waving over her shoulder as she walks through the wall into Peter's room. I hear a muffled noise of surprise (almost a yelp, but that couldn't be right, could it?) from the poor, harassed mutant, and have to stifle a laugh.

"And stay out of my walls, Shadowcat!" I yell after her as an afterthought.

Only now does John sigh, and relax. I sit on the bed and grin over at him suggestively. "You know, now that I've said it, we'd better make out. Just in case." He laughs, a smooth, unself-conscious sound that makes my knees weak (lucky I'm sitting down), and says, "Well, I wouldn't want to make you a liar, now would I?" He walks towards me, and I almost forget to reply, "No, you really wouldn't."

He plants a hand on either side of my legs and leans forward until we just barely brush lips. I want to wrap my arms around him but feel like I shouldn't, so I lean forward, my hands lying ineffectually in my lap. He laughs and backs away just far enough that I can't reach him without grabbing him or leaning far enough to fall off the bed. I growl (or maybe whimper) in protest and he ducks in with another fleeting kiss, his tongue swiping across my lips. I sit there for a minute, probably with my mouth hanging open, before I remember my dignity. More specifically, I remember that theoretically I have some. It probably wouldn't be happy about this.

I grab the front of his shirt and yank him forward. He looks magnificently surprised for a moment and then, happily, he is too close for me to see properly. I can feel him quite well now, though. I'd say it's an excellent trade-off.

His hands are just working their way into my shirt when he breaks off and backs away slightly. He can't get far away though, since he's crouched over my legs and my grip on his shoulders is quite unrelenting. I look at him curiously, my brain still lust-addled (or maybe just John-addled) and wait for him to do something. He takes a deep breath and slips one hand out from under my shirt to run through his hair. "The door… is open still," he mutters, looking like he's trying to remember why that's important. I glance over and it is. Barely. No big deal, I decide.

"And, and we have packing to do. Well, you have packing to do," I add, since apparently we're objecting to the kissing despite the fact that it is quite fun. And excellent. And awesome. "Yeah," he says, nodding once. "Packing." Then he pushes me, gently but insistently, onto my back. "But… I could do it later."

"Mmm," I hum encouragingly, shifting to the side and lying back, "later." He kisses the side of my face. "Much later," I add decidedly, as he licks at my earlobe. I shiver. "Hell, maybe never." He nips approvingly at my neck. I think I babble inanely for a while. I don't really bother to stop talking, or take notice of anything until he's got half of my shirt off. Then I decide that it isn't really fair that I'm having all the fun here. I suppose I should return the favour.

With this in mind I roll over on top of him, my shirt unbuttoned and hanging from my arms, and pin his arms to the bed. He grins up at me, dark eyed and panting.

I can't be expected to resist an image like that, and I don't. I affix my mouth to his, kissing sloppily and eagerly and still holding his arms down. He's arching up off the bed to get closer, and I can feel him moving against me, his shirt feeling nice but unsatisfying against my bare chest and stomach. I ought to deal with that, but I don't really want to stop kissing him. I have to breathe, though, and I suppose that I could multi-task a little.

With that in mind, I remove my hands from his wrists and slide his shirt up. John, wonderful person that he is, lifts his arms up and squirms cooperatively. I drop the shirt over the edge of the bed, forgotten in the haze that his squirming under me creates. He peers at me curiously, and then his lips curve delightedly and he does it again, deliberately and slowly.

I groan, grinding against him ineffectually, and he laughs. I want to be offended, but he is still moving against me, sending warm spikes of pleasure up my spine with each movement, and I could forgive quite a lot as long as he keeps going. "You're pretty new to this, huh Drake?" I wonder hazily why he's calling me Drake now, of all times, and I'm amazed at how coherent he is; I'm afraid to open my mouth for fear of what might come spilling out of it (idiotic babblings, or worse yet, dangerous truths). His voice is pitched lower than usual and hoarse and there's a mischievous curve to his smile and his eyes are challenging me, and he is utterly irresistible. I wonder if he knows it. Maybe that's why he's so smug all the time.

"Yeah, I guess," I admit guardedly, proud that nothing compromising has gushed forth ('I love you,' comes to mind, and I banish the words to the back of my mind). "That's not," he pauses to fasten his hands onto my hips and guide my movement, "surprising, I guess." I let him direct me and surrender to the sensations that are bombarding me. My hands are wandering again, trying to discover everything about his body all at once, and then they enlist my mouth in the effort, and he doesn't seem to mind at all, one hand reaching back and around to grope at my ass.

I buck forward, slightly shocked by the sudden squeeze. Then I am far more concerned with his other hand, which is straying also. I shut my eyes, and most definitely do _not_ whimper. At all.

With a sudden burst of courage or foolishness, I return the gesture, stroking at the hardened bulge in his pants clumsily. My bravado lasts only until I realize that I'm not exactly sure what to do next. I resort to sporadically copying his motions (which feel _amazing_, incidentally. Mind-blowing, although that's probably an unfortunate word choice) and hoping that he approves. He seems to, groaning and panting at me and letting his head loll back, eyelids fluttering shut.

I think that seeing that probably pushes me right over the edge (and then some); my spine shudders and I feel an orgasm building. My hand moves erratically, jerking too quickly, but that is probably alright since he is stiffening, thrusting upwards, hands clutching at my back and sides, eyes tightly shut. His name spills from my lips, again and again, and I drink in the sight of him. He is dishevelled, sweating and panting, face drawn into a strange grimace or smile.

And he is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

Then we're done, and I'm sitting on top of him in quite an awkward position, lanky limbs tangled together and stickiness drying in my pants. "God, John," I say, my voice as weak and shaky as my arms, should I try to move them. He smirks at me, twisting out from under my body to sit sort of upright and curled around me. He makes me think of my mom's stupid, spoiled cat sometimes. Not that I would screw the cat, but the way he moved just then was positively feline (smug and contented and self-satisfied).

"I answer to both," he says, with all the smugness of someone who has just unleashed a bad joke upon you, and knows there is nothing you can do about it. I groan, but I would mind much more if not for the fact that his voice still sounds so low and hoarse and breathy, making me recall his pants and gasps. "You're terrible," I sigh, into the skin of his neck.

"No, I'm amazing actually."

"And so full of yourself." He turns to me, grinning broadly, but then bites his lip and looks away. I'm a little bewildered. "We should get cleaned off," he suggests, and I sigh. That's true, but I'd really just like to sit here and continue to lethargically feel up the shirtless John sitting next to me. I can hardly be blamed for feeling quite contented where I am right now, and he seems to feel the same, since he isn't moving either. Then something occurs to me, and the chill of horror dispels some of my warm, sleepiness.

"John, were we very loud?" He looks at me in puzzlement for a minute before comprehension dawns on his face. "Only, the door was open, and there is a girl next door who can peer through walls, and…" I'm feeling warm again, but this time it is the uncomfortable heat of embarrassment spreading through my body. "And," he continues, his voice strangely unaffected, "there are mind-readers in the building, and probably at least one little weirdo with supersensitive hearing. I'm talking about you," he barks, chuckling.

"God," I say. "We're gonna have to move out, John. I don't think I'll be able to have sex, knowing that some thirteen year old might be listening in." He smiles at me strangely, fleetingly, and then laughs. "Whatever, you prude. Little girls aren't nearly as innocent as you seem to think they are. Now I'm going to have a shower. Coming?" And he stands up, shirtless and in stained pants, and walks out of the room. I'm left staring open-mouthed at the door, and wondering if he meant it the way I heard it.

I later realize that he was carrying clothes with him, and that there is more than one shower in the nasty, communal bathroom. Even later, cleaned and showered, we finally move his crap into the new room and proceed to christen a few of the sturdier bits of furniture, though not as completely as I would have liked to.

* * *

So. I may be drawn into the smut-writing vortex if I am not careful. This is really quite fun. *cackles evilly*

Colvine


	30. Chapter 30

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**And Then There Were Two**

John/Pyro

"God, John." He looks at me, and the look in his eyes fills me with something. I don't know what, but it's powerful, and it's intense. Too intense. It makes me euphoric, and frightened. I'm afraid (always) that this will crash down upon my head, that someone will change their mind about me, that _he_ will change his mind about me, that I will have to leave, _again_, have to start over, _again_. And I really don't want to, which isn't right. It shouldn't bother me. I don't even like this place, with its stupid rules and platitudes and weakness. But this – where I am, who I'm with, what I'm doing - feels almost alright, sometimes, enough to let me forget that I am powerless right now, and that frightens me more than anything else.

The mutation, the power, it was all I had, for so long. It was the most important thing about me, the thing that made me different and unique and worthwhile. And now I don't have it, and I should be fucking terrified, furious, angry enough and desperate enough to do anything. Instead, I'm sitting here and fucking cuddling. This place has its claws in me, in a way that it couldn't manage the first time, and I don't know if I like it. I should want out, I should want revenge, I should want something – anything – other than seeing that look in his eyes again.

So I slide out from under him, put on my best smirk, and take away some of the power of the moment, "I answer to both."

He groans at me and immediately I think of his groans only a moment earlier, and flush. Luckily, he has buried his face in my neck, cold nose and lips at the skin of my neck. Instead of shying away as I normally would, I lean into him barely, imperceptibly. "You're terrible," he says, and I feel the words forming on my skin.

"No, I'm amazing actually," I say. _And my god, so are you_. That isn't something that I go around saying though, so I content myself with thinking it, loudly, at the top of his head, hoping that despite the think, dense skull, something will get through. Or maybe I hope that it won't – it's safer if he doesn't know how much power he seems to have over me.

"And so full of yourself," he mutters. Maybe it's because of the way his voice still sounds like sex. Maybe not. But my immediate reaction is to say something clever, along the lines of 'full of you,' and see if he gets it. I quash that particular urge, biting my lip. Instead I tell him, truthfully, that we should get cleaned up before things start drying. He just sighs and slides a hand across my chest – still heaving slightly – absently.

"John," he begins, and his tone sends a chill down my spine. Immediately and unreasonably I begin to fear- what? What if he has decided this isn't what he wants? What if- his voice cuts across my descent into panic, "were we very loud?" I sit still for a moment, confused, and then I understand. He's just remembered that we have neighbours. "Only, the door was open, and there is a girl next door who can peer through walls, and…" he trails off, and I can feel him growing warm. Probably blushing, which is quite adorable.

"And there are mind-readers in the building," I pick up where he had trailed off, trying to embarrass him more, "and probably at least one little weirdo with supersensitive hearing." I pause and then, in accordance with my theory, bark "I'm talking about you," to whoever is, theoretically, listening in.

"God, we're gonna have to move out. I don't think I'm going to be able to have sex, knowing that some thirteen year old might me listening in." It makes me feel weirdly weightless that he's talking so casually and assuredly about this theoretical future, together, that I am always afraid to lose. I smile, unable to suppress the grin fighting its way up to my mouth. I realize that he is probably talking about the little mind-reader-fan girl we met a while ago, and twist the grin into a slight, teasing smirk. "Whatever, you prude." He splutters indignantly. "Little girls aren't nearly as innocent as you think they are," especially, I conclude, if they can hear what the people around them are thinking, all the time. In fact, that would be pretty damn scarring. Disregarding that rather disturbing train of thought I stand, grab a handful of the clothes that remain in this room (the shirt looks like one of his, and that doesn't bother me at all, which may not be good), and stride towards the door.

"Now I'm going to have a shower. Coming?" I leave it to him to interpret that and it seems that he does so, judging by the pretty blush crawling across his cheeks. I wait until I am out of the room, and then laugh until my stomach hurts.

* * *

Hot water. I know this is a pretty feeble effort, and pointless moreover. I know that it isn't going to help me, but I don't care. I just feel so cold sometimes. Not even cold on the outside, because that really isn't a big deal – grab a fucking sweater and you're good, my occasional bitching notwithstanding.

The problem is that I feel it to my core – it feels like I've swallowed ice cubes (and there are so many jokes I want to make about that particular turn of phrase), and that the cold has seeped into everything that it comes into contact with. I feel this deep, chilling emptiness – in my chest, in the pit of my stomach, running up and down my spine – and it scares me. Not that anyone will ever hear me admit it, because I don't talk about these things. I can't, and it's not like anyone ever tries to ask me.

So instead I am scalding myself, and wondering if I could possibly be any more pathetic. Then I decide that angsting is a little bit too typical teenager, and instead I cast around for something to feel good about. I don't have to look far, before Bobby thoughts drift to the forefront of my mind, and bring a smile to my face, and a weirdly sentimental smile, at that. I can't get the look in his eyes out of my head.

And of course, I'm thinking about Bobby, so my thoughts don't exactly stay clean for too long – thoughts of eyes shift to mouths, and then I just go all over the place. I mean hell; I'm already in the shower and everything. Then I remember that while he might come in, other guys could also come in here, and that makes it pretty uncomfortable and, strangely, a bit more appealing.

Wow, that's a bit weird. I have exhibitionist tendencies, it seems. That's just going to freak the hell out of poor Bobby, isn't it? I get out of the shower and dry myself off, and then look down at my skin, which, big surprise, is faintly red and almost steaming, although that could just be the hot air in the room. I also look pale and malnourished, but I figure that's just me being critical. Apparently he has no problems with the way I look. God, it's almost sad how that automatically makes me smile.

I walk out of the bathroom with wet hair and an indomitable grin. Bobby appears to have been lurking in the hallway waiting for me to leave, because as soon as I am out he walks in, quickly and without a backwards glance. I would be offended, but I think he is trying to be considerate to the other people who use the bathroom, and avoiding me in there, so we keep our hands off of each other. It's a nice thought, I guess, and one that I certainly wouldn't have bothered thinking about.

I consider engaging in some embarrassing form of a public display of affection, but then I decide that that would be a little cruel, and instead proceed to the room to haul all my stuff into my new room. By the time Bobby finishes his shower and turns up in the room again, I am almost finished. All that needs to go still is a handful of CDs and whatever shit I've left lying around. I grab most of it, and he picks up the rest.

It is at this point that, if our positions were reversed, I would have gone off and done something else, or at the very least stopped helping. He doesn't, and I am amazed, once again, by how… how very good he is. Not good as in proficient, just good like he's too damn nice and shit to be real, I swear to god. Hell, if I hadn't seen for myself real anger, real hurt in his eyes, I would swear that the inside of his head is nothing but, I don't know, pretty rainbows or frolicking bunnies or something equally disgusting.

He's still here, and trying to help. Trying to be a good… boyfriend, I guess.

Fuck, but that's weird. How the hell do you reconcile me joining the Brotherhood, fighting against these people, trying to create, if you believe it, a new world order, with this strange little… domestic scene?

I'm preoccupied with the strangeness of it as we continue unpacking, which doesn't take very long, since I don't have much shit. I stay in my withdrawn, pensive mood, and don't come out of it until Bobby looks at me with a sly grin and says, "You know, this is a new room, with new furniture and stuff. Think we should, I don't know, christen it?"

As I walk over and back him up against the bookshelf (because why not start there?) all I can think is that I may have just created a monster. But I bet Doctor Frankenstein didn't have _nearly_ this much fun.

Later (much later, to my satisfaction) we finally decide that the rest of the world deserves some time as well. We head out to the rec room, but find only some younger kids wrapped up in a video game – looks like Grand Theft Auto, and I wonder how young those kids are, to be playing that.

"So, what now?" Bobby asks me. "Should we try to find people, or…" he trails off, leaving the question open-ended and gaping.

I shrug. "I'm not really feeling very outgoing just now, let's just stay here."

He nods. "Alright. Well, there's always the pool table," and I look at him sharply, because the first thing that comes to mind involving a pool table is not something to be done in the presence of children, Grand Theft Auto playing or not. He looks back, confused, and then catches the look in my eyes and colours slightly. "Or, or, you know, we could…"

"Nah," I say teasingly, "pool sounds fun." I smirk at the disappointed look in his eyes, which he quickly tries to hide. "Yeah, sure," he agrees, arranging the balls on the table as I reach for the cues. Neither of us plays very well, instead brushing fingers while reaching for things, standing too close in the hopes of distracting each other and, in my case at least, staring appreciatively at his ass as he bends over the table. I definitely prefer this to a real game, though.

* * *

Once again, sorry. I'm wrapped up in writing something else, and I don't want to post it until I'm finished. This story will be winding to a close soon, I think.

Colvine


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